


El Dorado

by NyxEtoile, OlivesAwl



Series: Have Gun - Will Travel [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, Gen, Gratuitous Smut, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5963470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlivesAwl/pseuds/OlivesAwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>A Man on a Mission</b>
</p>
<p>US Marshal Steve Rogers is on the trail of a notorious thief. Chasing him across the West has proven an excellent distraction from the loneliness that comes from being a single man surrounded by happy couples. A few weeks on the trail, bouncing from one boomtown to another is just what he needs to clear his head.</p>
<p>Until he sees a face he thought he'd seen the last of. . .</p>
<p>
  <b>A Woman with a Past</b>
</p>
<p>Pinkerton darling Sharon Carter has made a point of protecting her heart as well as her back. But when a job tracking a jewel thief leads her right into the arms of the one man she can't forget, she has to wonder if he might be worth a little heartache. The job has to come first, but what she does after dark is nobody's business.</p>
<p>Together they'll find secrets, adventure, and passion in the cities of. . .</p>
<p>
  <i>El Dorado</i>
</p>
<p>
  <img/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Near Dark

_Dover Creek, CA_

There had been a great deal of debate in the office as to what sort of persona Sharon should adopt for this mission. Frilly wasn't going to work, certainly not on her own. Courtesan was more likely, and would certainly blend in in any boom town. But it could be limiting, and often required the fighting off of random, poorly bathed men. So, in the interest of efficiency, and with the knowledge that she might be on this particular quest a long time, she'd come as more or less herself.

Which was why she was sitting in a corner of the hastily built saloon, in her trousers and boots, playing poker with a handful of prospectors with pockets that desperately needed lightening and trying to get a lead on her current prey.  
 She'd had worse jobs.

People were coming in and out of the saloon. She'd let them settle into the room before she glanced up, lest she be obvious she was watching. Someone had just come through the door, and when she looked, he was leaned on the bar, ordering a drink. He had on a cowboy hat and leather duster that bore the vague outline of the double-holster gun belt that was clearly beneath it.

She knew those shoulders.

The last time she'd seen Steve Rogers he was playing sherif in a dusty Kansas cattle town a thousand miles from here. Even if he had gotten tired of it, he didn't seem the gold rush type. Too stable, too meticulous to get caught up in it. So what on earth-

It took all she had not to let her sudden realization show on her face. She tossed two bits into the pot to call and cursed in her head. A marshal. Because _that's_ what she needed right now.

He was drinking his whiskey now. The saloon girls were collecting at opposite ends of the bar, all glaring at each other and having mental conversations. Calling dibs, no doubt. A man that good-looking didn't wander into a place like this all that often. It made her think of the ladies back in Triskelion and that, for some odd reason, made her sad. She did, on occasion, miss some of the odd ducks she'd met in that town.

She put down her three eights and two queens and grinned as the men she'd been playing realized they were beat. Scraping her winnings towards her, she clucked her tongue, "Lady luck's feeling fickle this evening."

The grumbling got pretty loud, but none of them actually accused her of cheating. Nothing that might be trouble. But they were loud enough to get Marshal Rogers to turn around.

Their eyes met and she tried to arrange her expression into one that said, "Yes, I see you and it has been a long time but if you blow my cover I will reintroduce you to my Colt and not feel shy about it."

His eyes widened, but then he touched the brim of his hat and turned back to the bar.

Good boy. She played a couple more rounds of poker, tossing the same few dollars back and forth, before it got boring and broke up. Two of the men went off with the saloon girls and Sharon bellied up to the bar at the marshal's left. "Double whiskey, please," she told the bartender, forking over some of her winnings.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said.

She didn't look at him. "Quite the coincidence, I'm sure."

"I'm just passing through. You?"

"Oh, the same. Can't resist a good gold rush."

He waved for a refill. "Prospector? That who you are this time?"

There was something a little cranky in his tone. Someone had not gotten over the frilly little naif she'd pretended to be once upon a time. She stifled a sigh. "It suits me," was all she said.

His expression made her almost laugh. "Have you seen how rarely they bathe?"

"It's less seeing and more smelling," she admitted. "But if you breathe through your mouth it's not so bad." She looked at him. "I imagine you're passing through quickly if they offend your sensibilities so much."

"I have a job to do. As, I imagine, do you." 

She smirked and looked over at him. "Who me? I'm just playing some poker."

"I thought you were prospecting."

Oh, look who thought he was clever. "The activities are remarkably similar. If done right, both make me richer." She knocked back some of her drink. 

He smiled around the rim of his glass. "Fair enough."

She finished her drink and had the bartender leave the bottle. "So how is everyone back in Kansas?

"Good," he said. "Happy. Being fruitful and multiplying. Babies everywhere."

"How novel." Tilting her bottle, she splashed whiskey into his empty glass. "How's your friend? Still playing doctor with his nurse?"

"Mmhmm. They had one of the babies, actually. Stark keeps improving his arm—yeah, he stayed, as did his girl, unbelievably. He made Bucky and Thor a bit richer renovating Pierce’s old house and is now working on spiffing up the town. They also had a baby. Everyone had a baby."

That was a lot of bitterness about babies. She fought the urge to pat his arm in sympathy. "I'd run off to a prospecting town too."

"I though it would be less likely I'd get spit-up on my shoulder." He refilled his glass. "I was wrong."

She laughed brightly, loud enough for a few people to look over and some of the saloon girls to glare. Sharon ignored them. He hadn't been likely to hire one of them anyway. "Maybe your work will take long enough they'll be grown and interesting when you get back."

"Yes, but something tells me there will be more." He drained his drink again.

"Maybe Stark will spruce the town up enough to attract someone with lace and bonnets." She filled his glass then hers. "I hear you like that type."

He sighed. "I was just trying to be nice to you. If you'd actually been that girl. . . it could have gotten ugly."

If she had actually been that girl, he'd likely be dead, along with half that stupid town. Coulson wouldn't have been able to get the warning from the home office in time and Pierce's little army of gunslingers would have slaughtered them like lambs before they could mount a defense. Not that she wished to brag.

"Good thing I'm this kind of girl then." She smiled around the rim of her glass. "Instead of that."

He sipped his whiskey. "For a little bit there, you reminded me of the sort of life that isn't in the cards for me."

She had to admit, a small part of her had enjoyed the vague feeling of being. . . courted by an honest, respectable man. She glared into her glass, irked at the memory. "Not everyone gets a winning hand."

He raised his glass. "I will drink to that."

Their glasses made a merry clink as she tapped hers to his. It was pretty good whiskey, especially for a boom town saloon. She was starting to feel the heat in her belly and the pleasant, relaxed sensation that indicated the start of a good buzz.

They shared their next two glasses in companionable silence. Rogers's ears were turning a little pink and the bottle was shockingly low when she asked, "You staying here?"

"Ah. . . I'd intended to, but I'm pretty sure I've missed my window to get a room." He shrugged. "Not like I'm not used to sleeping under the stars."

It was absolutely the whiskey that made her say, "I have a room."

"The ground is probably cleaner than its floor."

She laughed. "Less likely to get bothered by flies or bandits, though."

"Do I look like a man likely to be robbed?" There was amusement in his voice.

"I don't know, couple of those ladies at the other end of the bar might gang up on you." She shrugged. "Suit yourself. But if you want to help me finish the bottle -" She reached over and picked it up, swirling the last couple inches of liquor dramatically. "You're gonna have to brave my room."

He stood up. "Are _you_ going to rob me?"

"Your distrust hurts me, Sh- Rogers."

"It doesn't help that our early relationship was built on lies." He held out his hand. "Lead the way."

All right, that actually did hurt a little. Seemed petty to take back the invitation now, though. So she turned on her heel and headed for the stairs, heading for the room she'd rented. It was at the back of the building, with a small window looking out into the alleyway. The floor was probably pretty filthy. But when she checked the bed it was mercifully free of any unwelcome guests. She perched on the edge and took a swig of the bottle.

Rogers seemed to fill the room, make it feel even tinier than it was. He closed the door and leaned against it, eyeing the rough-hewn wooden chair in the corner for a moment, before deciding to give sitting in it a try. He held out his hand for the bottle.

She handed it over and reached down to unlace her boots. It had been a long day and she was in for the night. If a woman's feet made him uncomfortable. . . well, that was his problem. 

It was dim in there, with only a small lamp by the bedside that didn't have a whole lot of wick left. In his corner he was bathed in shadow. "I really liked you," he said, the whiskey making his voice rough.

"I liked you, too," she said quietly. She remembered telling Coulson as much, though in rather cruder terms. "I did save your life."

"Maybe that's why I liked you." He handed the bottle back to her. "You had an arsenal in your skirt."

She grinned and said, "You should see what's in my pants," before taking a long pull from the bottle.

That made him laugh. "If a man said that, he'd get punched." He paused, then said. "Mrs. Stark had a ballgown of hers shipped from New York to use as wedding dress. Huge satin thing, bustle, train—in our little dusty church. In the middle of the ceremony, Natasha leans over to me and says, 'Sharon would have a gatling gun under that dress'."

She had been in the middle of another drink but that made her burst into laughter, which caused her to choke and cough. "Oh, God," she finally wheezed. "I'll have to remember that."

He leaned forward to take the bottle from her. "You standing over me with that gun was one of the most attractive sights I'd had in. . .ages."

It could have been the whiskey making her feel hot and flushed, but she was willing to bet that his words had something to do wit it as well. "You did look a bit like you were going to lift me up against the alley wall and hike my skirts up."

"Would you slap me if I said I thought about it."

She didn't answer until he'd handed the bottle back to her. "Hell, Sheriff. I'd have let you do it."

His intake of breath was audible. "You know, I never was actually a Sheriff."

There was barely a mouthful of alcohol left and she held it out for him to finish it off. "I won't hold it against you."

He took it, and he drained the bottle. He was quiet for a few moments, then said, "I suppose I should get out of your hair."

There was nothing in the world she wanted less than that. Especially now that she was picturing him holding her up against a wall and fucking her properly. She still couldn't see his face, shadowed as it was. "I can put up with your company a bit longer."

His voice seemed to rumble lower when he said, "I'm not sleeping on that floor."

It was not the whiskey, this time. It was entirely her. "I'll have to find you some space on the bed, then."

He didn't say anything, but he stood up. He lifted his hat off his knee and hung it on the corner of the chair. Then he shrugged out of the duster, and dropped it on the seat behind him. She watched him and felt compelled to peel something off herself, so she tossed her own hat onto her saddle bags, then untied and tugged her neckerchief off as well.

"Not exactly a lot of space on that thing," he murmured.

"We'll have to get friendly. Or imaginative."

He unbuckled his gun belt, but clearly wasn't willing to leave it on the chair near the door. So he came closer to her, so he could put it on the nightstand. His eyes were dark and hard to read. She wasn’t entirely sure if this was a seduction or a competition. See who would blink first. Either way, she was going to play till the end.

She rolled to the other side of the bed, standing to unhook her own gun belt and hang it on the headboard. Lifting a foot, she braced it on the bed and hiked up the pant leg to unstrap her derringer. Then she began unbuttoning her shirt, revealing the knife tucked between her breasts.

He reached out, touching just the knife with one finger. "This always here?"

"Almost always." If she was doing something that might require her to take her shirt off in front of a mark, she skipped it. Didn't seem a good idea to mention that right now. "I take it off to bathe."

His finger drifted lower, touching the fabric wrapped around her breasts and holding it up. "That the only time you take this off?"

She swore she could feel the heat of his finger through the binding. "I take it off to sleep, usually. It's uncomfortable to keep on."

"I don't doubt that." His fingers twitched like he was going to pull the knife out—or unwrap her entirely, which for a moment she really wanted him to. But the he dropped his hand, going back to remove his pocket watch and drop it on the bedside table with the gun belt, and then unbutton his waistcoat.

After watching him a moment, she had to look away to properly unfasten the knife. Then, because this was her room and she was going to sleep comfortably, she finished unbuttoning her shirt and shrugged out of it. Then her fingers when hunting for the end of her binding.

He'd just taken off the waistcoat, leaving him in a thin linen shirt and suspenders. But he'd gone completely still, just to watch her. She held his gaze, tugging the loose end out from where it had been tucked. Then she started to slowly unwind the long strip of fabric.

Very quietly, he whispered, "That's as sexy as unlacing a corset."

She grinned. "And just as much of a relief at the end of the day." The last two loops fell off and she took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders. His eyes dropped, and she could feel his gaze on her breasts like a caress.

She let him look his fill, then walked over to the chair he'd sat on, draping the cloth over the back to let it air out. His gaze was on her the whole time, and when she walked back to the bed, she stopped in front of him. Lifting a hand, she stroked her fingers over the fine linen of his shirt. "You can touch me," she said softly.

He swallowed visibly, and when he raised his hand to stroke her breast she could see it shake, just a little. Natasha had told her he never visited the saloon girls. She wondered how long it had been since he'd been with a woman.

She wanted - rather desperately - to yank him down to her and fuck him till they were both panting and sore. And maybe there'd be a little of that later. But for now, she tamped down all that urgent impatience and reached up. Cupping his face in her hands, she drew him down for a soft kiss. It was not chaste, by any means. But it was gentle and coaxing instead of demanding. His arms came around her, pulling her tight against his chest. She could feel him relaxing into her, letting go of some unknown tension. The kiss got deeper and hotter, and took off like wildfire.

Her moan got swallowed up in his mouth. She slid her hands down to hook her thumbs into his suspenders and tugged them down his arms. Then she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and tugged it out of his pants so she could reach under and touch skin. His muscles twitched and his body shuddered, and she thought, yes, it had probably been a long time. She went to work on the buttons, until she could push it off his shoulders.

Shirtless Steve Rogers required breaking the kiss to look at him. He was. . . remarkably perfect. Broad shoulders that she knew from across a room. Defined muscles in his chest and abs and a trim waist. There was the faintest dusting of soft blond hair on his chest and a thicker, darker trail leading into his slacks. She stroked her fingers down that tantalizing little path, before lifting her head and grinning at him.

"Sharon," he whispered, her name sounding like a prayer.

"I want you," she replied. She went up on her toes to kiss him again, sucking his lower lip. "But not if you don't want me back."

She supposed she expected him to blush, or perhaps even open a debate about if they should actually do this. Instead he took her wrist and pushed her hand down further, over the rather unmistakable bulge in his trousers. Instinctively, she curled her fingers around him, cupping him through the heavy fabric of his pants. She stroked him, testing his length. "Good," she murmured, reaching up to sink her other hand in his hair and pulling him down for another hot kiss. He reached for the fastenings of her pants, working them open and pushing them off her hips. There was urgency in his motions. Maybe she'd get her hard fuck after all.

She kicked her pants off without letting him go. His hands skimmed over his hips and thighs and he lifted his head when he came into contact with the knife strapped to her thigh. He groaned, and when she reached to remove it, he whispered, "Leave it on."

Heat flooded her and she reached for the buttons of his fly. His erection sprang free as she got it undone and tugged his pants down. It actually took her back a bit. She was far from innocent but that. . . that was impressive. She might have muttered something along the lines of, "Oh fuck."

Steve chuckled. "That a complaint?"

"No." She licked her lip and curled her fingers around him again, soft skin instead of rough fabric this time. "No, honey, that was definitely a compliment."

"I need to—I need to sit down to take my boots off." He stumbled over the words, clearly distracted by her touch. She let him go and turned him, shoving the center of his chest so he would sit. Then she crouched down and took his boots off for him, then his pants where they had puddled at his ankles.

She kissed his knee, looking up at him through her lashes. "Better."

He didn't take his eyes off her face, but he reached behind her and carefully undid the braid in her hair, fanning the strands through his fingers. She straightened slowly, so he could watch her muscles ripple and shift. She propped her fists on her hips so he could look his fill of her, naked save for the knife tied to her thigh with thin leather straps.

 Then she stepped closer, caught one of his hands and drew it between her legs, so he could feel exactly how wet she was. He stroked her for a moment, with one long finger. Then he withdrew his hand and reached for her, tugging her down into his lap so he could kiss her.

She straddled him, digging her hands into his hair. Rocking her hips, she rubbed her slick heat against the length of his cock. She was about to lift up so he could slide inside when she realized she'd forgotten something.

Lifting her head, she murmured, "Hold that thought," and hopped off his lap to dig her diaphragm out of her pack. 

His brow creased. "What is that?"

"It's a cap," she explained, putting a foot up on the bed next to him. "Prevents pregnancy." He watched and she pinched it between two fingers and slid it inside. Usually she did this well before anything interesting started to happen. Putting it in while aroused was a little easier, and a little strange.

He rubbed his hand along her calf. "That mean I don't have to pull out?"

That didn't help. She closed her eyes and shuddered, but managed to get it seated properly. "Yes," she said, voice husky. "In fact, please don't pull out." Dropping her foot, she climbed back on his lap. "I love the feel of a man losing himself inside me."

His chest heaved as he breathed in and out. She'd wound him up good. When his hands clamped on her hips they were almost painful. Then he shifted her and pulled her down onto him. In one hard thrust he was as deep as he could be, her pelvis notched to his.

Sharon's head fell back with a gasp. God he was big. She was stretched around him, so full she was already throbbing. For a moment, she could do nothing but feel him and adjust. Then she shifted her knees and started to rock, up a few inches then down again. And that, amazingly, felt even better. He seemed content to let her ride him, pressing his face into the crook of her neck and groaning. It had to feel as good to him as it did to her.

But it was slow, and it wasn't enough. Before she could voice that, he turned, flipping her body back onto the bed and staying inside her. "Yes," she mumbled, catching his mouth in a rough, sloppy kiss. His hips pulled back, then thrust forward, rocking her with the force of it. She growled a little. "Yes. Just like that."

He hitched one of her legs up, bending it so her knee was nearly at her shoulder, making for more friction and tighter angle. His fingers found the knife holder, and he cupped over it with one warm hand as he began pounding into her harder.

It was perfect, exactly what she's wanted. Rough and fast and wild. He was strong and big and seemed to have let go of the polite lawman veneer so he could fuck her like God intended. It hit every spot, sliding and tugged just the way she liked it and soon she was arching beneath him, finger tips digging into his muscle.

"Good, so good," she whispered, sucking at the skin if his throat. "You feel so good. I'm- God, I can't." Then she couldn't speak, could only gasp out a little cry as she shuddered and clenched around him, pleasure pouring through her, roaring in her ears.

He made a sound almost like he was in pain, and entire body shook. He gave a few small, erratic thrusts as she felt him spill in her. He was as lost in it as her. She felt the heat of it, the way he twitched as he rode it out and moaned softly as an echo of her pleasure swept through her. She wrapped her arms around him stroking a hand through his hair and down his back. She was surprised at the rush of affection she felt for him just then. He’d brought her flowers, once. Tried to look after her when he'd thought she was innocent and alone. No one had ever tried to take care of her, not like that, not since she was a little girl. It had been hard, once he'd found out what she really was. He'd looked at her differently.

Right now, however, he was sunk into her, boneless and panting, in that way men had after a particularly good climax. Like he couldn't remembered how his limbs worked. She pressed a little kiss to his temple and kept petting him.

He nuzzled her and whispered, "You are amazing."

_She_ was not the one that looked like a statue of a god she saw in a museum once. Well, men had different standards. "I'm glad I ran into you here," she said quietly.

He lifted his head and smiled at her. "So am I."

They kissed a bit more, quiet and tender, before shifting to move under the sheets of the bed. It really wasn't big enough for the both of them, but they managed to tangle up enough to be comfortable.

"This is definitely better than the floor," he murmured.

Sharon smiled and nestled a little closer. "Good night, Steve."


	2. The Searchers

The sun coming through the window woke Steve. He had a bit of a headache behind his eyes, and a warm body tucked against his. The second was the more pleasant of the two sensations, so he decided to pay attention to that one first.

He kissed Sharon's bare shoulder. "Morning."

She shifted and stretched, skin sliding along his. "So it is." She glanced over her shoulder. "Sleep all right?"

"Better than I have in a long time," he said, the admission surprising him.

That made her smile widely. She looked very soft and pretty in the morning light. She reached up and kissed him tenderly. "Good."

He pulled her close, letting the kiss deepen. They didn't have to get up quite yet. She responded eagerly, arms and legs winding around him to hold him to her. She'd taken her knife off to sleep - he'd seen her tuck it under her pillow - so now there was nothing but soft, bare skin to explore.

_Good_ , he thought as he kissed his way down her neck. He wanted to take his time, this time.

It had been a long time, before last night, since he'd been with a woman. It had been even longer since he'd had slow, languid morning sex. From what he knew of Sharon, and the way she was reacting to his careful exploration, it was possible she'd never had it. After her initial confusion, though, she melted into him, sinking her hands into his hair and murmuring his name as he kissed and nuzzled at her skin. There was no space in this bed, but he could work with what he had. This would end today, he knew. So he wanted to memorize her while he could.

She was perfect, long limbed and tanner than any woman he'd ever seen. Her skin was soft, but hard muscle lay beneath it. He'd seen her fight, and knew she was as capable as any man, but like this she was undoubtably, wonderfully female.

There was a handful of scars, including the one on her arm from the shoot out in Triskelion. Coulson had said she'd been an agent with them for a long time, and had spied during the war. It was probably impossible to have history like that without wearing it on your skin.

He closed his mouth around one taut, pink nipple and she arched into him, cursing. He felt her nails on his scalp. He decided to take that as encouragement, moving to the other breast, and then he took a tour of her scars. When she was shifting restlessly beneath him, he slid down to the end of the tiny bed, as far as he could get without falling off, and slung one of her legs over his shoulder.

She sucked in a breath and whispered, "Oh, God," voice cracking a little. "You don't-" He pressed his mouth to her sex, stroking her with one long lick of his tongue and she moaned. He could feel her leg trembling against him. He waited to see if she was going to protest again, but instead she stroked his hair. "Don't stop. Please don't stop now."

He wanted to promise her he wouldn't, but she wouldn't be able to hear it anyway. It was easier just to demonstrate. He teased and explored, just as he'd done to the rest of her body, before zeroing in on what felt best. She was delightfully, desperately responsive, making all manner of noises.

Her moans got particularly frantic and she lifted her hips, pressing herself into his mouth. Then she shuddered and he slid his hands under her ass, holding her up, licking leisurely at her clit as she came, pulsing and twitching against his mouth. As she calmed, he kissed his way back up to her mouth. When he got close, she grabbed him by his hair and pulled him in for an intense, messy kiss.

Curling a hand under her leg, he hitched it up, angling to slid inside. Sharon broke the kiss abruptly. "Wait. Let me check-" She slid a hand down and he lifted up so he could watch her slide two fingers into herself, apparently confirming that marvelous little device of hers was still in place.

"Good?" he whispered.

After a moment, she nodded, slipping her fingers out to curl her hand around his hip. "Just perfect. C'mere."

He braced over her, leaving space between their bodies because with the advantage of daylight, he wanted to watch. Slowly, slowly he pushed inside of her. She felt soft and swollen and very wet. She made a quiet, content sound as he filled her, head tipping back and back arching to take him deeply.

Seeming to sense his desire to watch, she reached up and stretched her arms over her head, giving him a view of her body in the golden morning light. Her skin flushed and he saw the muscles in her stomach tighten, even as he felt her clench around him inside. He groaned as he started to move. Yeah, this was perfect.

He was determined to take it slow, to savor every moment, every inch. They would likely never see each other again, and certainly not like this. He wanted to remember every moment of it. For a while - longer than he expected - Sharon let him set the pace. She arched and gasped and mumbled praised and pleas. 

Then she reached up for him and he lowered himself, kissing her. She wound her arms around his shoulders and he felt her tense. Then they were rolling, coming frighteningly close to the edge of the bed. She was now straddling him and sat up, grinning proudly, before starting to ride him, harder and faster than he'd been moving.

It still let him watch, and now run his hands up her body. "You are something else."

She grinned, watching him as intently as he watched her. "That a compliment?"

He grinned back, rolling one of her nipples between his fingers. "Hell, yes." He tugged on the nipple and she shuddered, hips jerking out of rhythm a moment. She liked a little pain. If there was a chance of them doing this again that would be worth knowing.

It seemed to be the beginning of the end for her. Her thrusts got rough and rapid and he swore she seemed to grow slicker and hotter around him. He slid a hand down to flick her clit and she cried out, driving down to take him to the hilt. She shook, back arching and he could feel her body rippling and pulsing around him. He held on as long as he could, wanting to watch her and feel her. When he finally came it hit him so hard for a moment the room spun.

When he came back to himself he found Sharon braced above him, hands flat on his chest. She had clearly been watching him and grinned when he opened his eyes, lowering herself to kiss him, deep and tender. There was something in the kiss he had trouble putting a name to. Fondness, perhaps. Affection.

Steve cupped her cheek and stroked it with his thumb. He was startled just how desperately he didn't want this to end.

She settled on his chest and for a while they just lay there, tangled together and drifting in the pleasant afterglow. Sometimes they kissed, with various levels of intensity. Eventually, they heard the saloon waking up around them. It was probably well past time to get up.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For this."

She was silent a moment, then pressed a kiss to his chest. "You're welcome. It was mutually enjoyable."

"Did you need it as much as I did?"

He felt as much as heard her laugh. "I get the sense it's been longer for you than me. But i definitely needed a night with a nice guy I was attracted to, yes."

He kissed the top of her head. "Are you more often with ugly jerks?"

"Men that look like you are few and far between. And sex is often a means to an end."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It shouldn't be."

She lifted a shoulder, moving to sit up. "I never do anything I don't want to," she said, but didn't seem entirely comfortable with the conversation. Or his sympathy. "It was just nice to not have an agenda." She lifted a foot and removed her device, getting up to go wash it in the basin and tuck it back into her things. She didn't bother to put clothes on, so he had the pleasure of watching her walk around naked.

He watched for longer than he should, before finally making himself get up and get dressed. Watching her weapons go back on was almost as fun as seeing them come off.

When she was fully dressed, she sat on the bed to braid her hair and watched him finish dressing.

"It's funny," he said. "I was sure I'd never see you again."

She smiled a little, tossing her finished braid over her shoulder. "The west can be remarkably small, sometimes."

"When I met you, I was certain said west was going to eat you alive."

"I like to think that poor Miss Carter would have sorted herself out somehow. But having the protection of the upstanding marshal surely would have helped."

He shook his head as he put on his duster. "I hope you and the reverend didn't laugh at me _too_ much."

Her smile turned a little sly and a little sad. "He made me promise not to seduce you."

"I don't know if I'd have taken Miss Carter up on that offer."

"Well, then. Probably best for everyone it happened how it happened." She stood and crossed to stand in front of him. Touching his jaw, she went on tip toe to kiss him gently. "You'll forgive me if I hope our paths cross again."

"I do, too," he said, returning the kiss. "I like this you better."

That seemed to surprise and please her in equal measures. "Not everyone does. I think you just made my day."

"Then I have done my job."

It was obvious that she was as reluctant to say goodbye as he was. They stood in the center of the room and kissed. Then, as if at some unspoken cue, they parted and finished gathering up their things. It wasn't until they were in the hallway that he said, "Whatever you're up to. . . watch your six."

She glanced up at him and smiled. "I always do, but I appreciate the sentiment. And you, too."

He tipped his hat to her, and then he made himself walk down the stairs.

*

Maybe sex with a marshal was lucky, because Sharon found her quarry's campsite later that day. Unfortunately it was deserted, though recently so. Some digging and asking around the neighboring claims indicated Merrick might be headed to a new vein in Bowen, a town a couple days ride from here. Because a tour around every dusty, smelly boom town in California was exactly how she wanted to spend her time.

Spending a few more nights exploring all the things Marshal Rogers could do with his tongue was far more appealing. Not very realistic, though.

She did have a nice long ride to think about it, though. Honestly, if she'd known it would be that good, she'd have ignored Coulson and jumped him back in Kansas. It might have made leaving at the end of it all more complicated, but she would have had a hell of a lot of fun beforehand.

Bunking outside under the stars was pleasant enough, though her horse would have preferred a warm stall and some oats. Sharon's dreams were filled with gods and statues and swirling stars. She was in a remarkably good mood when she rode into Bowen the next afternoon.

She rode past the telegraph office on her way up the main street, and noticed a large white horse tied to the hitching post outside. A _familiar_ large white horse.

Oh, for _fuck's sake_.

Rather than go into the telegraph office and confirming her suspicions, Sharon continued out to the prospect claims to try to get a bead on Merrick. The men she encountered were suspicious of new comers, even a woman, and claimed to have never heard of him, or anyone that looked like him.

It was after dark when she went back into town, to her horse's relief. "Yes," she told the filly. "I'll find you some oats. Can't promise about the stable, though."

The saloon here looked slightly nicer than the one in Dover Falls, which wasn't saying much, but maybe it'd have some decent food.

And there, when she walked in the door, was her favorite Marshal, sitting at one of the tables with one of the saloon girls balanced on his knee.

Jealousy was a useless emotion, especially in relation to a man she had absolutely no claim on. So it was obviously not jealousy that made her brush past him without a second look. He was working and any attention she gave him might tip his hand. So she bellied up to the bar and asked if they had anything hot to eat.

"I think there's some soup left," the barkeep said. "I'll look."

"I'd appreciate it. Anywhere around here I can get some oats for my horse?"

"General store's still open. They'll have a scoop or two to spare." She nodded and he went in the back to look for her soup.

 The skin between her shoulders itched and she wondered if the marshal was looking at her. Damned if she'd turn and check. A minute later he leaned on the bar next to her. "Well, isn't this deja vu."

She glanced up at him. "Quite. I didn't realize the west was this small."

He gave her that disarming grin of his. "So you're not following me? I'm a little disappointed."

Damn that grin of his. "Here I assumed you were chasing me down."

The bartender was returning with a bowl of soup for her. Steve held up two fingers and the man went to get them drinks. "Have you broken the law lately?"

"Would I admit it to you if I had?" She blew across her spoon and tried the soup. It was a bit thin, but surprisingly tasty.

"That is between you and your God, Miss Carter."

She smiled at him. "You sound like Coulson."

He shrugged. "It's the West. The rules are different. Lots of petty things nobody cares about out here. I like it. Lets me pay attention to the real problems." 

"I love the west. It's why they send me out here so often." She didn't much fit in back home anymore. The dresses and ruffles tended to chafe when she wasn't playing a part. And even then, sometimes. "There's a freedom here I can never have in the east."

"Good place to get lost, too. If you need it."

She thought of Merrick, one or two steps ahead of her. "Make it hard to find people," she muttered, sipping the whiskey the barkeep had set down in front of her. It was as warming as the soup.

"I expect that's why you and I have jobs."

Giving him a canny look, she said, "So you _are_ looking for someone?"

He looked back at her. "I am in pursuit of a fugitive, yes."

It would be wrong to pump him for information. Though possibly fun. "Any luck?"

He shrugged. "I have enough leads to keep me moving."

"I suppose that's all you need." She scraped the last of the soup out of her bowl and shot back her drink. "Well. I'd best go spoil my horse a bit. If I want her to take me anywhere tomorrow."

Steve watched her a moment, and she thought he might offer to take her upstairs. But instead he said, "Have a good night."

She touched the brim of her hat, the way he liked to, then turned on her heel to go. She didn't even toss a warning glare at the saloon girls, which she thought was quite restrained of her.

That night, she didn't sleep as well as she had the night with him. The bed was uncomfortable and the saloon below was particularly loud. So she woke up early, in time to glance out the window and see Steve in the alley between the saloon and the stable, loading his saddlebags.

She watched him a moment, fairly confident he wouldn't notice her. Odds were good they were after the same man. One town was a coincidence, two in a row was a pattern, especially with Merrick leaving a trail as blatant as he was. Following Steve would be easier than digging up the trail again. And hey, maybe she'd catch him before the saloon girls in the next town.

Turning from the window, she went to get ready.

*

Steve was four hours into his ride before he realized someone was following him. The trail was rocky and wooded, and he'd been pretty busy just keeping his horse out of trouble. Visibility was poor. But damned if there wasn't someone out here with him.

At first he thought it was Merrick, somehow doubled back and intent of getting rid of the lawman that had been trailing him. But when he stopped to stretch and let his horse graze he caught sight of his companion and knew from first glance it wasn't the thief he'd been tracking. Too slight, to easy on the saddle. And he'd recognize that strawberry roan anywhere.

He decided to wait for her to catch up. They probably should have a chat. He wasn't going to contemplate possible outdoor sex. They were working and all.

As she got closer, it occurred to him he probably wouldn't have seen her if she hadn't wanted him too. He might have noticed he was being followed - he had an instinct for that - but she'd have remained a ghost if she'd wanted to.

She didn't hurry when she saw him waiting, letting her horse plod along until she reached the little patch of grass he'd chosen to rest in. "Marshal," she said easily when she got within conversation range.

"Miss Carter," he replied, with an exaggerated hat tip.

"Fancy meeting you out here." She said it in the tone of voice she had used when he'd first met her and thought she was soft and weak and about to be eaten alive by the west. "Isn't it a lovely day?" she added.

"Somebody didn't hire you to. . . shoot me or something, did they?"

Her laughter should have been reassuring. "No. I wouldn't take that job. And if I did you'd never see me coming. I have the feeling you and I are on the same job, matter of fact."

"That was my second question."

She smiled and swung her leg over, sliding gracefully off her horse. The filly sauntered over to graze near his horse and Sharon stood in front of him, stretching. "I figured following you was easier than finding his trail alone."

"Some might call that cheating," he replied.

"Some might not care. I am not a marshal. Pinkertons get the job done however we have to."

Including pretending to be people they were not. When he'd seen her yesterday, he'd wondered if maybe she was also looking for Merrick. Maybe something he stole. The second meeting certainly was too much of a coincidence. A nasty voice in the back of his head had wondered if their night together had had an ulterior motive.

Maybe something of that thought showed on his face, because her smile faltered and she glanced away, looking over at their horses. "I've been following him almost a month now and he's consistently ahead of me. I don't know if he's heading towards something or knows I'm catching up. I'm guessing adding you to the mix isn't going to help."

"I would imagine so, yes." He studied her. "So do we lay the cards on the table, or just try to stay out of each other's way?"

She didn't answer right away. "I'm concerned our priorities might be different."

"I want the man, you want the merchandise?"

"Just one bit of it, really. I'm told he was prolific."

"What if he's already fenced it? Whatever you're looking for."

She lifted a shoulder. "Find out where he fenced it, track it down. I'm pretty confident he hasn't though. Not a lot of places in Dover Falls to sell an emerald necklace."

Steve chuckled. "Ah, no. I think for that you'd have to go all the way to San Francisco."

"Hence why I'm trying to get to him before that." She braced her hands on her hips and squinted off into the distance, in the direction they had been headed. "So. Where are we going?"

He knew she'd just follow him if he didn't tell her. "A town called Copperville. They'd don't mine any copper." 

"Then I'm going to assume someone named Copper found himself quite important there." After a pause, she added, still not looking at him, "Two ride safer than one."

"Is that your polite way of saying you'll protect me in the woods?"

She turned then to grin at him. "You strike me as a man that needs looking after."

He smiled back. "I wouldn't say no."

The grin softened into a rather sweet smile. "All right then."

They gave her horse a little more time to graze and Sharon drank some water herself. Then they mounted up and headed towards Copperville side by side.


	3. The Bandit Queen

For a while they rode in silence. It wasn't awkward, so he didn't worry about it. But the trail leveled, and he found himself wondering about her. "How does someone like yourself become a Pinkerton?"

Her fingers fidgeted on the reins. "Not sure I can pin the exact moment. I've always been a bit odd." She was quiet a moment. "I spied for the North during the war. I suppose that was probably the point of no return."

He whistled. "That is a dangerous occupation."

"It was nerve-wracking at times," she admitted. "I did good. Saved some lives. When it was done I couldn't go back to drawing rooms and husband hunting. Coulson was my contact while I was spying, he convinced the Pinkertons my skill set would be of use."

"So you _were_ once a fancy lady?"

"My family was relatively prominent in New York society, if that's what you're asking."

He glanced over at her. "So you knew who Stark was?"

The corner of her mouth quirked up. "I did. I attended one of his parties, just before the war broke out."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

She laughed a little. "He didn't appear to be hurting anyone. I assumed he had a good reason for not telling you who he was. The war scarred everybody in different ways. I'm not going to begrudge a man his chance at a new life."

"The war is impossible to get away from. I couldn't go back to my old life. But I thought if I came out here I could run from it. . ." He shrugged. To this day, it was still hard to talk about.

They rode in silence for a little while. "I never saw a battle," Sharon said eventually. "But I met a lot that did. They all had the same haunted look."

He could still smell the gun smoke and hear men screaming, if he thought about it for even a second. "It was hell. Actual, biblical hell."

She nudged her horse a little closer to his and reached out, touching his thigh with the tips of her fingers. He looked down, and found himself reaching down to touch her hand, and somehow their fingers ended up laced together, dangling between them.

It was awkward, but her horse was obviously very well trained and his would put up with just about anything. So they were able to ride for a while like that, holding hands. When the town came into view they dropped the hold without a word, but he could still feel her touch.

He had no idea why that helped. Why that stopped the flashback that had been brewing dead in its tracks. But it had, so he turned and offered her a smile. She smiled back, pretty and genuine. "You're good company, Marshal."

"Company's nice some time."

She nodded. "It gets lonely. The life I live, the way I live it. It's rare I meet someone who actually knows who I am."

"Rare things are often more valuable."

"And then they build up a boom town around it," she added with a grin.

He inclined his head toward the town. "Should you happen to wander by the saloon tonight, I'll buy you a drink."

"I will keep that in mind." The way she said it sounded like a promise.

"Happy hunting, Miss Carter."

She touched her hat brim and spurred her horse on so they would arrive in town at different times.

*

Copperville was larger than Dover Falls or Bowen. The saloon looked like it might have proper sheets and good liquor. And, apparently, a fascinating marshal willing to buy her some of that liquor.

It had been aa very nice ride into town.

She asked her usual questions in the usual places, then stopped by the telegraph offices to send a very frustrated update to the head office. She was just stepping out onto the street when she heard gunshots what sounded only a few doors down, followed by more than one person screaming.

Across the dusty street, Marshal Rogers appeared on the boardwalk in front of the general store A few storefronts down from her, two men with cloths tied over their mouths came out of the bank, laden with heavy saddle bags and waving guns.

Sharon took in the scene in a split second and glanced across they way at Steve, meeting his gaze. Then he looked back at the robbers—it looked to be the bank they'd come out of—and stepped out into the street. He drew one of his guns and shouted, "US Marshals, stop where you are!"

The robbers had been loading their take on their horses and froze when he yelled. One lifted a gun to shoot at Steve, but the other swung up into his saddle and spurred his horse.

Before she'd really processed what she was planning, Sharon was heading for her horse. The roan was a diva of the highest order, but if there was a faster mount in the west she'd yet to meet it. Steve was still exchanging bullets with the first robber when she had mounted up and went galloping after the second.

He kept glancing back, but he was clearly looking past her, back at Steve and the other robber. Nobody ever looked at her and saw a threat. It was one of her greatest assets.

With him looking back, he wasn't moving nearly as fast as he should have been. She caught up with him easily, pulling up alongside his horse. He looked at her in surprise, as if she'd appeared from nowhere. Seizing the opportunity, she swung her leg over and leapt at him, tackling him off his horse and rolling in the dirt with him.

They ended up with her on top of him. She yanked his gun out of his hand and tossed it aside, then grabbed his hand twisting to the side, falling off of him and twisting his arm back behind him. He shrieked like a little girl, making her half tempted to break his arm just for spite. 

A few moments later a shadow fell over them, and she looked up to see Steve, breathing hard and pointing his revolver at the thief's head. "If you're dead, then I don't have to deal with you. I don't have to haul your ass to Sacramento for trial. I don't have to fill out any paperwork. I can go about my business without giving the spot we dump your body a second glance. So I'm not real motivated to not just shoot you in the head, and you might want to think very, very hard before you give me even the slightest excuse to do so."

"Also?" Sharon added. "We're totally going to tell everyone you were beat up by a girl."

What little fight he'd been putting up stopped and Steve helped her haul him up to his feet. He took the thief by the arm and said, "Now apologize to the lady for getting her dress dirty."

The bank robber looked at her, in her denims and cotton shirt, a little incredulously. She propped her hands on her hips and tilted her head expectantly. "Sorry. Ma'am," he mumbled.

Steve winked at her, and then hauled the man off, back towards the commotion in front of that back and likely in search of the town sheriff. The other bank robber was sprawled in the dirt, bleeding from a chest wound that was clearly mortal.

After whistling for her horse, she rounded up the thief's and lead it back to town, tying it up in front of the sherif's office. She could hear Steve's voice rumbling inside the building and he didn't sound annoyed, so hopefully the town's lawman was a reasonable sort. The undertaker appeared to be doing his thing for the other robber. Seemed like her work here was done.

She glanced down at her admittedly filthy clothes. She was coated in a rather impressive layer of dirt and clay mud. There were burrs caught on her pants and she shuddered to think what her hair looked like. Hopefully the saloon would have a free room for one of the lawmen that had saved the bank.

They at least did start her off with a table and a drink. She got a clue just how dirty she must be when the barkeep referred to her as "sir". Steve wandered in not long after, and came over to her table. He was already grinning and shaking his head. "Okay, now you look like a prospector."

"My methods are not pretty, but they are effective." She lifted her drink in a toast. "Bad man all squared away?"

The barkeep had left her the bottle, so he picked it up and clinked it against her glass before taking a swig. "Yes. I wasn't kidding about having to take him to Sacramento, unfortunately."

She was surprised at the rush of disappointment she felt at that. "Not one of those things you can pass off onto some other wandering marshal?"

He shook his head. Then he put the bottle down and studied her. "Come with me."

It was good she'd already finished her glass because had she been drinking she would have choked. "To Sacramento? When are you leaving?"

"It's flexible, he's jailed here and they would have had to wire for a Marshal anyway. But I came here because I heard gossip about a pending large robbery here. I _thought_ Merrick was involved, but clearly I was wrong."

She needed to track down Merrick. She travelled alone and didn't like big cities. Even big cities in the west. But what came out of her mouth was, "I'll come if you want me to."

"I could use the back up, and you seem pretty good at it. We make a half-decent team."

"Seems like we do." She grinned. "Might want to talk about me having to do all the hard work." She rubbed her back a bit. Her body was starting to make its displeasure at jumping off a horse and tussling with a bank robber known.

"Let me go see if I can find us a room. And maybe a bath for you?"

She rather liked that he'd assumed it would be one room. That should probably worry her. "A hot bath," she agreed. "And maybe some food."

He nodded, and went to talk to the bartender. She watched him disappear into the back. Then a few minutes later, someone brought her a big bowl of beef stew. The food entertained her for a while. It was far better than the food in the last few towns, with actual spices and flavor. 

Halfway through the bowl she realized Steve was taking an awfully long time to get a room set up. She was finished with the bowl, and actually starting to worry, when he finally reappeared.

"And where have you been?" she asked, sounding more irritated than she meant. She didn't like that she worried about him.

"Getting the room ready," he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You done eating?"

"Yes." She told herself she didn't, actually, sound like a grumpy toddler when she said it. He looked at her expectantly and she stood, snagging the bottle as she followed him. 

As he turned them towards the stairs, she looked forlornly in the direction of the kitchen. Looked like the bath wasn't happening. "There's no privacy while the saloon is open," Steve said, like he could read her mind. "And the bathhouse is men only. The owner did say there are pitchers and basins in the rooms."

She stifled a sigh. It would be better than nothing.

They went down a hall upstairs, and reached the door. Steve pushed it open. It was a decently sized room and contained a double bed, which was a nice surprise. Then she saw the copper tub sitting beside the small lit fireplace, steam rising off the surface of it's water.

She approached it cautiously, almost afraid it was a mirage that would disappear when she got too close. Her knee bumped the warm metal and she dipped her fingers into the water, groaning a little. It was the perfect temperature for soaking sore muscles.

Steve was watching her, grinning. She paced back to him and grabbed hold of the neckerchief he wore, tugging him down a little. "Thank you," she murmured before kissing him soundly.

"You're quite welcome. How about before you get in I wet a cloth and wipe off the dirt so you're not soaking in it?"

Her toes curled a little at the idea of it. She was fairly sure his motives weren't entirely practical, either. Not trusting herself to speak, she just nodded, taking a step back and taking off her hat, tossing it onto the bench at the end of the bed, before untying her own neck cloth and starting on her shirt. He let her do that, and instead came behind her and began picking burrs or twigs or who knew what out of her tangled hair. She dropped the shirt, and then he helped her unwrap her breasts. He bent to press a gentle kiss against the revealed clean skin.

She sighed softly at the touch, and the feel of him standing so close. She'd gotten used to having him around, to letting him in her walls. She'd have missed him if he'd gone to Sacramento without her.

Bracing a hand on him, she lifted one foot, then the other, tugging her boots off. He pushed down her pants and her drawers and her socks, leaving her naked. He took one of the cloths folded beside the tub and dipped in in the water. Quickly, gently, he wiped all the dirt off her skin.

It felt remarkably good, the cloth warm and slightly rough against her skin. The way he looked at her heated her even more. He was quick, but thorough, then held her hand as she swung a leg up and climbed into the tub.

She couldn't contain her groan as she sank into the hot, welcoming water. Steve sat on the side of the bed. "You want some privacy?"

"Mmm. Don't you dare. I'm gonna have my filthy way with you once I'm nice and clean."

He grinned at her. "Save me some of that bath water, I did haul it up the stairs. Sorry it took so long, their buckets were small."

Surprised, she turned a little to look at him more fully. "You carried it all up here?"

"They only have a pump in the kitchen," he said, like it was he most obvious thing in the world.

She gaped a moment. "You didn't have to do that."

He lifted a shoulder. "You needed a bath."

At a loss, she just stared at him another moment. For some reason the thought of him carrying all those buckets of water up here just so she could have a bath unsettled her. Not necessarily in a bad way. But it felt like this was more than some convenient on-the-trail sex.

She cleared her throat and said, "Want to come in here with me?"

"I don't think there's room. It's all right, I'm enjoying watching."

His choice of words made her grin. Deliberately, she reached over for a fresh cloth and used it to scrub her exposed skin. Tipping her head back, she got her hair wet and combed her fingers through it. It was so long the ends floated in the water around her.

She lifted a leg out and scrubbed it, then the other. Then she rubbed the cloth across her chest and under her breasts. She didn't look at him, pretending he wasn't even there. She let the cloth go and settled her shoulders back against the edge of the tub, hand wandering down her body to stroke herself between her legs. She could hear his breathing pick up, and she could almost feel his gaze on her skin.

Closing her eyes, she spread her legs a little wider and began to circle her clit in earnest. She thought of Steve even as she pretended he wasn't there. Pretended it was his fingers touching her, callused from riding and shooting just as hers were. She moaned softly as heat started to rise.

"That's it," he whispered. From the location of his voice he must have come to kneel beside the tub. "Show me."

She gasped, surprised he was so close. Gripping the edge of the tub with her other hand, she arched, pressing up into her own hand. Her fingers moved swiftly, firmer than before and she felt it twist and shatter inside her. She stiffened, crying out.

He touched her only barely, then. He just folded his hand over hers on the rim of the tub. "You are so beautiful," he told her.

It took her a moment to catch her breath. When she could speak, she opened her eyes and gave him a brilliant smile. "I was thinking of you."

His eyes closed and he groaned. "Jesus."

She let herself float another moment or two. Then she gripped both sides of the tub and hauled herself out of the tub. Steve held out a towel and she stepped into it, letting him wrap her up in it. He held her against his chest, and pressed his face into the crook of her neck.

He was warm and sturdy and really, smelled ridiculously good. She leaned on him, eyes closed, perfectly content to stay here all night. The bath would cool eventually, though and she wanted him to get his bath if he wanted it.  
 Lifting her head to kiss his jaw, she said, "I saved you the water. Use it while it's warm and I'll get myself ready for the main event."

"You're a goddess." He released her to get in the tub himself. He stripped with efficiency, and his groan when he sunk into it was practically a sex noise.

She watched him as she dried off. Then she draped the towel over the back of a chair and it was his turn to watch again as she walked naked to her bags and dug out her diaphragm. She didn't consider putting it in particularly sexy, but he'd enjoyed watching her. So she positioned herself in his easy sightline to do so. He scrubbed himself clean without taking his eyes off her, splashing a little water on the floor.

Fidgeting the little cap into place was surprisingly hard with him staring. She was still soft and swollen from her orgasm and the stroke and tug of her fingers didn't help. When it was finally seated properly she couldn't resist thrusting a bit with two fingers, just for fun. 

As she did, she heard the rush of water indicating Steve had stood up. "Come here," he said.

Grabbing a towel for him, she slipped off the edge of the bed and joined him at the tub. He pulled her close for a rough kiss without even stepping out of the tub. It felt like he wanted to devour her. She moaned into his mouth, wrapping the towel and her arms around him, the way he had her. He was holding her so tight her feet were almost off the floor. She wiggled so he'd release her enough that she could dry him off. She didn't want to sleep in damp sheets. Besides, she liked touching him.

She ended up kneeling to skim the towel down his legs. It put her eye level with his impressive erection. A reaction, she supposed, to her show. She finished drying him and let the towel drop wrapping a hand around his cock. His hips jerked in reaction and she leaned forward, curling her tongue around the head, tasting salt. Glancing up at him through her lashes, she slid him into her mouth, rocking forward.

He made a growling noise, reaching hesitantly to touch her hair, like he wanted to hold on but didn't want to interfere. Or he was just careful of her. How very like him.

The hands got a little more urgent as she licked and sucked. Enough to give her warning before he could release in her mouth. When he was panting, she leaned back and got smoothly to her feet. She caught his eye, then turned, walked to the edge of the bed and bent forward, bracing her hands on the sagging mattress.

He muttered a curse, and grabbed her hips, tugging her back to thrust inside her. It was rough and just a little too hard. She must have really wound him up. She moaned, fisting the blankets in her hands. "Yes, just like that." Bracing her legs wider, she bent her head and thrust back into him, so that it was even rougher, almost feral.

His hands snaked beneath her, one to cup a breast, the other between her legs. She could feel the desperation and tension in him. His fingers thrummed against her clit and she hissed air through her teeth, bucking back. The sensations swirled and blurred together. She cursed, then cried out his name as pleasure gripped her. Rocking back helplessly against him, she rode it out, pulsing and throbbing around his cock.

With a groan he arched against her, thrusting deep and bumping her legs against the bed frame. She felt him shudder, felt the heat of him spilling into her. She locked her arms, holding on as long as she could before going limp and slumping onto the bed. He lifted her gently, turning her to lay on her back. He fished behind him for something and came back with the washcloth from the tub. It was still a bit warm, and he gently cleaned them both off.

The gentle touch and rough cloth felt very good on her heated, sensitive skin. When he was done, he tossed the cloth aside and they both got up and under the covers, tangled together on the bed.

He made a mumbling noise and pulled her close. "Thanks for the help," he murmured.

"I'll beat up guys for you anytime."


	4. The Desperados Are in Town

It had been a long, rough day, and they slept pretty hard for a couple of hours. Steve woke in the middle of the night with his arm asleep from how she was laying on it. He shifted and she stirred, so he pulled her closer. The fire had died to embers and there was a chill in the air, enough he sat up to grab the warmer quilt off the foot of the bed. 

This was the nicest room in the entire hotel.

Sharon mumbled something and nuzzled herself into his shoulder, fingers flexing on his arm. She really was beautiful. He liked her hard edged and tough and knocking bank robbers off horses. But he also liked those glimpses of softness he saw sometimes. Like right now, relaxed and smiling faintly in her sleep. He kissed the top of her head and sighed in contentment. Contentment being something he'd long thought completely elusive.

He drifted a while longer, waking again when Sharon stirred. Dawn light was pouring through the window. His other arm was asleep now, and she was half draped across his chest. She opened her eyes a few minutes after he did. "Mornin'"

He grinned. It was probably a stupid grin, but he didn't care. He hadn't felt this good since before the war. "Good morning."

She rolled off him and stretched. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well. How about you?"

"Mmm. Best pillow in the west."

He watched her a moment. "I was thinking. . . how about we work together. Officially, to find Merrick."

She didn't respond immediately, glancing out the window. Then she looked down at him and grinned. "We do make a hell of a team."

"If he's not in Sacramento—which I don't think he will be—we're going to have to go to San Francisco. It's really the only place he's going to get money out of that necklace. And then possibly put himself on a boat. In which case we're both screwed."

"How are we going to divvy him up when we catch him?"

"Do your employers want his head on a stick?"

"They're really just interested in their necklace back."

Steve tipped his head back and thought about it for a moment. "If we take him alive, and I find _other_ stolen items on him, you can have the necklace. If he's dead, or we have to kill him, you can also have the necklace. Otherwise, I'll need to keep it for evidence, but the owners will get it back eventually." 

She studied him, obviously weighing the deal in her mind. Then she stuck out her hand. "Deal."

He shook it. "I'd spit swear but I think we're way past that as far as exchanging bodily fluids at this point."

Her thumb slid slowly along his. "Yeah. I think it's fair to say we have a certain amount of trust."

"The sun's up, so we should probably hit the road. But we could get a real hotel room in Sacramento and seal the deal officially."

She might have blushed a little, but she leaned in to kiss him. "I look forward to that. Especially because we'll have a chaperone on the way there."

"I'd tie him to a tree facing the opposite direction for the night if I had to. But I'd just as soon wait for a bed. It's getting too cold at night to be naked outside."

"Winter is coming," she agreed. The room was even chillier than before. He wasn't looking forward to getting out of bed. They might barely fit, but it was warm. "Well. Sooner we start sooner we're there."

"I agree," he said. Neither of them moved from under the covers. "There's hot coffee downstairs," he added, to himself or her he wasn't really sure.

"Yes. Probably some breakfast. The stew last night was pretty good." She shifted, and he expected her to get out. Instead she curled closer to him, tucking her head under his chin. "You're like a furnace."

He kissed the top of her head. "I am happy to keep you warm."

She sighed softly and they lay there as the light changed from thin grey dawn to brighter morning gold. Steve couldn't remember the last time he'd just lay in bed with a woman. No expectations, no agenda. Just enjoying each other's company, the feel of the other's skin.

Finally, she stirred again. "All right. That'll hold me until Sacramento."

He was rather touched by that. "It was my pleasure."

With a light kiss on his lips, she rolled away and climbed out of bed, hissing a little as her bare feet hit the cold floor. She crossed to her bags and dug out clothes for the day. They dressed quickly and packed up their things. Downstairs they ate breakfast and walked together to the jail. "I should deputize you," he commented. 

"I don't think I'm ready for that sort of commitment, sweetling," she said lightly.

"I should, but I'm not going to."

She looked up at him, looking sly. "So I can get away with shit you can't?"

He grinned back. "There are certain advantages to having a partner not bound by laws and regulations."

The look she gave him made him think she wanted to drag him back to bed. "I'm happy to work the grey areas for you."

"Then I think we'll do just fine."

They picked up the bank robber at the jail and loaded up for the long ride to Sacramento. He and Sharon had to ride flanking their prisoner so their wasn't much opportunity to talk. Or flirt. Which made the ride seem even longer. The trail got narrow, requiring them to ride single file. He let Sharon go first, then the prisoner, then him. They were halfway down the mountain when the robber said, "This is the best view I've had in ages."

Without looking around, Sharon called back, "Getting turned on by horse's asses is nothing to be ashamed of. Especially when you are one."

"Do all the Marshals look like you?"

"No, we're the pretty brigade."

Steve snorted in laughter, and the guy turned and look at him. "You should see me when I shave."

"Tell me," Sharon asked. "Is it more or less embarrassing when a pretty woman kicks your ass?"

"That was a fluke. I didn't want to hurt a lady."

Slowly, she glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Bullshit."

"Take these cuffs off and I'll prove it," he said, full of bravado. Steve was sorely tempted to let him.

"You could try to escape," Sharon offered. "That might be fun."

"She'll shoot you," Steve told him. "I'll let her. And if you don't shut up, I might shoot you myself and lie."

Sharon's giggle drifted back to him and they were able to spend a few miles in peace and quiet again. They had to camp that night, and Steve tied their prisoner to a log with his back to them. Not because he expected to fool around, but because he didn't want him looking at Sharon while she slept. They slept in shifts so someone could watch him. 

In the morning, he didn't say a word about the second black eye the man had mysterious acquired overnight.

*

They made Sacramento the next evening. Sharon took her horse and went to find them a hotel room while he dealt with all the paperwork. He really hadn't been kidding about the paperwork involved.

It was the biggest place she'd been in since coming west, but it was still nothing compared to back east. However, you could sleep in a hotel without a drinking establishment underneath making noise at all hours. There were shops where they could replenish supplies, laundries and proper stables. Clean clothes and clean linen sounded particularly wonderful.

She booked a room with a big bed at the nicest hotel she came across. After leaving a note with the marshal's office to tell Steve where to meet her, she decided to take a walk. There was a shopping district near the hotel, including a dressmaker and cobbler. For a moment she debated with herself. She did not need a dress. She had nowhere to put a dress in her bags. But Steve had rather fancied her in lace and ruffles. She wouldn't mind him looking at her that way again.

She could get a practical dress. Cotton, calico, something that didn't need a corset. Something that might be comfortable on a hot day—California had strange weather, cold at night and still sweltering during the day. She had to do something with herself. So she stepped into the store and braced for the salesladies to pounce.

To her relief, only one came over. The girl - a few years younger than Sharon - listened to what she wanted without batting an eye and brought her over to the simpler fare. Sharon supposed she wasn't the only practical woman in the west. She certainly didn't look like anyone who had once worn silk and velvet.

They had ready-made dresses, house dresses or tea gowns that draped from the neck and were cinched with a sash or apron. The sort that could be made to fit literally anyone. She supposed there was a demand, in a railroad town like this, for emergency clothing. She found a pretty blue print with a little lace trim at the neck and the sleeves.

If she bought it, she'd have something to put on while she sent her regular clothes to be laundered.

She left the store with the dress and a straw bonnet with matching blue and white ribbon. Taking her packages to the hotel, she changed in their room, sent her things out to be laundered and was in the lobby reading the paper when Steve finally arrived. She had been starting to get impatient at how long it was taking—she was hungry—but when he walked in she noticed he'd gotten himself a shave and a clean shirt.

Grinning, she folded her paper and stood. He was scanning the room and his gaze passed over her at least twice before he really looked at her. Then he did a little double take. His grin widened as he came over to her. "Hello," he said quietly.

"Marshal," she said, just as soft. "We look ready for a proper date."

"This hotel has quite a nice restaurant," he replied.

"And I'm _starving_."

He inclined his head, and then politely offered her his arm. "If I may escort you." She slid her arm through his, tucking herself in at his side as they walked to the restaurant. A man in a crisp suit seated them and Steve held her chair out for her.

She felt oddly like she was playing dress up or acting a part. It had been a very, very long time since she'd worn a dress and gone out to a proper restaurant for her own sake.

"You remind me a bit of the first time I met you. Though that dress was yellow and had kind of an offensive amount of lace on it."

That dress had been a travesty. "I could fit more weapons in that one. Bustles are ridiculous, but occasionally useful."

"It was masterful camouflage."

Since they appeared to have reached the point she could tease him about it, she said, "I even fooled the big strong sherif."

"I was never a sheriff." He pointed at her. "And now that I know who you are, I _know_ you knew the difference."

"I do know the difference. And you were being far more of a Sheriff in that town than you were a marshal."

He made a grumpy noise and looked at his menu. "You know the women used to call you Cupcake."

She grinned. "I know. I don't blame them. There was a lot of froufery."

"Miss Natasha then concocted a whole lot of unsavory puns involving baked goods and my interest in you."

Oh, she was really sad she'd missed out on those. "I will have to ask her to remember some if I ever speak to her again."

"There were at least two about licking frosting."

"You are awfully good at that," she said before she could think better of it. His face turned red and he looked back at the menu. She found the fact that he had a shy side adorable. Quite the contrast to the man who threatened to shoot a bank robber to save himself paperwork. This was the side of him that had brought her flowers. And hauled twenty buckets of water up a flight of stairs.

Everything on the menu looked delicious, she had a hard time deciding. Well, if they were on their way to San Francisco - and he was right about Merrick's odds of finding a place to hock the necklace anywhere else - there would be many opportunities for delicious food. She got a potato soup and roast and could feel her mouth watering just at the thought of it.

"You'll have to teach me table manners," he said. "I'm kind of from the slums."

"Fancy linens or not, we are still in the west." She sipped her water. "New York?" Accents got muddled out here, especially in those who'd fought the war, but she picked up the odd harsh consonant now and again.

"Indeed. My parents fled the potato famine. My father died on the crossing, my mother stayed where we disembarked. When she died and the war broke out, signing up seemed the thing to do. Bucky followed me to make sure I didn't die. I was a scrawny kid."

That was a lot of grief packed into a couple of sentences. "Have you been back since?"

"After the war, Bucky and I went home. There was kind of a fuss because of some stuff during the war." Sharon had looked him up when she got home. He was an actual genuine war hero. But she wasn't going to get into that now.

She knew most of the rest of it. Bucky's injury and eventual breakdown. Steve chasing him across the country. The waiter brought their soups and Steve actually did watch her to see which spoon to use. "My father was in trade - shipping. But he did very well."

"And bought you lots of fancy dresses?"

"When I was young, yes. My parents died when I was sixteen. A shipwreck. I went to live with my uncle."

He put down his spoon and looked at her. "This isn't a happy story, is it?"

She smiled. "It's better than it seems, actually. You've met my uncle. I know he comes off stiff but he's really quite sweet once you get to know him."

He blinked. "I've met him?"

This was always the fun part. "My mother's maiden name was Coulson."

The look on his face was worth it. "He's your uncle?"

"Only living relative. We don't advertise it. He has enemies, and there are people who would question my abilities. But he's taken care of me since I was sixteen."

"Would he have let you sleep with me if the job called for it?"

She tilted her head. "That's a good question. He's aware I've done it before, but we've never worked a case together where it happened. I think so, only because he knew I liked you and found you attractive. He's always encouraged me to be in charge of my own body and seeing as how I'd have done it for 'free' so to speak he wouldn't have stopped me." She sipped her soup. "You probably would have wondered why the preacher suddenly seemed to glare at you a lot, though."

"I would assume for 'deflowering' the lost young maiden. Every time I have sex I feel like it's tattooed on my forehead and everyone can tell."

She chuckled, because she knew that feeling well. "I suppose it's good it didn't come to that."

He resumed eating. "The real you is probably much better in bed."

"Oh, God yes. She probably wouldn't have known what to do with your frosting licking."

Steve choked on his soup. She grinned. This was going to be a fun meal.

It was also a delicious meal, the food every bit as wonderful as she'd imagined it to be. They even had some wine, which was a nice change. "So tell me, how does one become a spy?" he asked over desert.

She swallowed the mouthful of wine she had. "Mmm, rather accidentally. Coulson was recruited to do some and, as I was still living with him, I went along as part of his cover. We ran a tavern in Virginia that served as a meeting point for a lot of Southern messengers, officers and the like. An officer fancied me and I started spending what time I could with him, picking things up from conversations. It snowballed from there."

"That's more dangerous than what I did." His voice held more respect and admiration than caution.

"Only if you get caught." She said it with a smile, because she really didn't want to talk about the moments where she'd come close. When she'd been quite certain she'd been about to be caught and beaten or killed. It had been terrifying at times. But she firmly believed she'd saved lives. 

He reached across the table to take her hand. "I suppose battle's like that, too. Do your best and hope a bullet doesn't catch you. I'm glad we both made it out on the other side."

Squeezing his hand, she nodded and swallowed the lump she felt in her throat. "Me too."

He pulled her hand closer so he could kiss her knuckles. "What do you say we go upstairs?"

"That sounds like an excellent idea."

He left cash on the table and stood without letting her go. When she got closer he tucked her hand in his elbow and they walked out of the room, polite as anything. 

*

The facade lasted all the way up to their room. Once the door closed behind them, Sharon turned to him and tugged him down for a rough kiss. Steve buried his hands in her hair, undoing the bun she'd wrapped it into and tilting her face to the angle he wanted. He could not get enough of this woman.

She made a little noise into his mouth as he moved her around. She did seem to like when he got bossy or physical. Much the way he liked her hard edged and armed. Though this dress was a very nice change. Holding her this close he could tell she wasn't wearing a corset. He untied the sash around her waist. The front of her dress was lined with little buttons, and he set to work on them.

It slowly gaped to reveal a chemise that was almost as frothy and lacy as anything she'd worn back in Triskelion. He grinned at it. "You bought underthings."

"I had some time to kill. You were doing paperwork." The dress slid off her arms, leaving her in the chemise and matching drawers with delicate embroidery on the edges.

"It's a little cupcake. I like it."

"I tried. I warred between practicality and making you look at me like that."

He cupped one breast through the thin material. "How am I looking at you?"

"Like you're gonna eat me alive."

He grinned at her, and bent his head to nibble her neck. "That sounds very appealing."

She gave a hum of pleasure, stroking her fingers through his hair. "We have all night. And a very nice room."

Slowly he worked the chemise upwards, revealing her skin to him. He was still learning her, still memorizing her shape and her scent. He'd started to draw her again—he'd done it back in Triskellion, and occasionally over the last two years, as if it would somehow help him purge her from popping up in his thoughts. But now she was here, and she was _his_ , for however long this lasted. He was going to enjoy that while he could.

There was nothing on under the chemise except for the knife hanging between her un bound breasts. He didn't know how she'd expected to get that out through the dress and under things, but he did love that she wore it. Like a secret only they shared. He reached without looking, finding the bottom edge of her drawers on her right thigh. There it was, the other knife. "You are something else," he whispered.

She kissed him, tugging his lower lip. "That a good thing?"

"The best." The bow on the drawstring at her waist came apart in his fingers, and then the cotton slid off her hips. That left her in just her knives, blonde hair spilling around her shoulders. He took a moment just to stare at her, drink in every curve and dip. The way the light from the lamps played on her skin.

Apparently, he drank a little too long, as she made an impatient noise before lifting her hands and unbuttoning his shirt. He grinned and watched her as she made quick work of the buttons, and pushed it off his shoulders. He let it drop, as the floor in this establishment was actually clean enough to do so.

She stepped close to kiss him again, hands sliding over his skin. Her nails scraped lightly, drawing out goosebumps. He backed her up until they hit the door, and then he lifted her up against it. "This was all I could think about all day."

Her legs wound around his waist and she hitched herself higher. "Getting me naked and pinning me to the wall?"

"Yes. Like this. Or having you underneath me. Or on top of me." He sucked on her earlobe. "I had lots of thoughts. You were naked in all of them."

She laughed, sounding a little breathless. "I like these thoughts of yours." She shifted, snaking a hand between them to work on the buttons of his fly. "I've thought about having you inside me all day."

He shifted one of the hands under her thighs so he could touch her, test her. His fingers slid across slick, wet skin. "I can tell." The touch drew a shudder and moan from her. She rocked against his fingers. "That's my girl," he whispered, finding her clit and circling it in the pattern he was beginning to learn by heart.

"Oh, fuck." She whimpered, head tipping back against the door. Her eyes closed and she rock idly with his strokes, growing wetter and softer by the second.

"Do you need your. . . thing?" She was soaking his fingers and his cock was throbbing and he really couldn't remember what the hell it was called.

To his utter relief, she shook her head. "I put it in when I changed into the dress." He groaned and nodded, and she shoved his trousers out of the way. He hitched her a little higher and then settled her back down as he pushed inside her. She closed around him, just tight enough to feel perfect, but that he could still move easily.

Sharon's legs tightened around him and she clutched at his shoulders as he moved. Her moaning in his ear, interspersed with gasps, whimpers and whispered pleas, was almost as sexy as the feel of her body clenching around him. She moved one hand down to touch herself, which was so hot. "Fuck, you feel good," he gasped, the door rattling now as he thrust harder.

She tried to respond but didn't get out more than a few unintelligible sounds before her fingers quickened and she started to pulse around him, shaking and arching with her climax. He cursed, pressing her against the door has his washed through him.

He leaned his weight on it, legs feeling watery, and something creaked. Sharon's arms tightened on him. "I think you broke the door," she whispered, sounding amused. He collected his strength and lifted her, somehow staggering them back to the bed, where they feel in a heap.

"It was worth it."

Laughing for real now, she pressed a kiss to his temple. "I absolutely was," she agreed, voice remarkably affectionate.

He rubbed her back. "Thanks for coming with me."

"Mmm. I'm very happy I did. You're good company."

He pulled down the covers and rolled them so they could get beneath. "I like sleeping next to you."

For a moment he thought he might have gone too far somehow, as she didn't answer right away. Then she curled up and rested her head on his shoulder. "I like sleeping next to you. I feel. . . safe."

"I'd kill anyone who tried to hurt you," he told her. "Not that you can't handle yourself. . ."

"It's always nice to have someone at your back. Lets you relax a little."

He sifted his fingers through her hair. "Been a long time. Since I could relax."

"Yeah. Me too. Maybe not since before the war."

Steve sighed, closing his eyes and feeling utterly content. "It was a beautiful dress."

"Maybe I'll wear it for you again sometime," she murmured.

"Deal." She stroked his arm lightly and he felt her melt against him. Her breathing evened out and she slipped into a doze just before he did the same.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I missed an update last week. I blame my children.
> 
> Any Mandarin speakers are going to get a heck of a bilingual bonus in this chapter.

Sharon woke up in the morning to an empty bed. The fire had fresh wood and was blazing, chasing away the morning chill. She must have slept hard if she hadn't been woken up by Steve doing that.

They _had_ had several rounds last night.

She stretched languidly, smiling a little at the vague aches and twinges. Steve was far more acrobatic than he looked. She didn't remember the last time she'd had this much fun. Part of her wanted to say fuck it and stay here, let Merrick do what he liked with his ill gotten goods. She was pretty sure she'd never be able to get Steve to feel the same. But it was a nice little fantasy while she readied herself to face the day.

There was a tap on the door, and then Steve let himself in. "Mornin'. You were out cold, I didn't want to disturb you."

"I appreciate it. The fire was nice to wake up to." 

"So I made arrangements to stable our horses here in Sacramento, and tickets for the train down to San Francisco." 

"You've been busy." She sat up and yawned, running her fingers through her hair. "When do we leave?"

"Eleven forty-five a.m. So we have a little time."

"Goodness, whatever will we do with ourselves?"

He leaned his back against the door. "We do have this room until 11."

Craning her neck, she spotted a clock on the fireplace mantle. "Two hours. We can have a lot of fun in two hours."

Which is how Sharon found herself running for a train for the first time in her life. It was rolling and they were sprinting beside it—Steve had to pick her up and toss her on, or they wouldn't have made it.

They were still panting when they found a compartment to collapse in. When she'd caught her breath she started to laugh, holding her side when it started to hurt. After a moment, he joined in, shaking his head a little at their antics.

"This is officially the most enjoyable manhunt I've ever been on," he said.

"I agree completely." She leaned back in her seat and smiled at him fondly. She was going to miss him when this was over. Much as she had two years ago, leaving Kansas behind.

"I've never been to San Francisco," he told her. "Though you hear stories. Everyone hears stories."

"If half of them are true then it's the most interesting town in the country. I've never been either, for what it's worth. Coulson will be jealous."

"I'll sketch the bay for you, you can send it to him."

She looked over at him in surprise. "You sketch?"

He lifted a shoulder. "It's a hobby."

"I had no idea. I'd love an original Steve Rogers."

He ducked his head and blushed a little. So, not just a hobby. "It's not that impressive."

Reaching out, she poked him with a toe. "I refuse to believe you do anything un impressively."

"I'm not a real artist is all I mean. I don't even know how to paint."

"You don't have to paint to be an artist," she told him. "DaVinci's best works were pencil and paper or canvas. I'd love to see your work."

He eyed her a moment, then pulled a small leather-bound notebook out of his saddlebags. He flipped around in it, and then held it out to show her. It was a drawing of the peaks of the Rocky Mountains in the snow. She took it and studied it. "That's beautiful. It looks almost real."

"Thank you," he said quietly, like he compliment mattered to him. "I drew a lot on the way out west."

She started to turn the page. "Can I see the rest?"

He pulled it back, flushing again. "Some are kind of private." He flipped pages. "Here, this one is Bucky and Amanda's daughter."

A little surprised, she nonetheless smiled at the drawing of an infant with a mop of black hair and very wide eyes. "You really are surrounded by babies, aren't you?"

"There's something to be said for it. But then sometimes watching everyone be happy is. . . " He sighed and shrugged. "Dr. Banner even got married."

She stared at him. "No. To who?"

"Do you remember the woman with the two children who got off the stage that you left on? Her. She was hired to be the new schoolteacher after Miss Foster got married."

"Huh." Sharon had barely spoken with the doctor, but he'd seemed like a nice man, if troubled. "Well, good for him."

"Sam told me I ought to order a mail order bride."

That struck her as hilarious, for obvious reasons. "They don't all look like me."

"I'm guessing women who look like you don't have trouble finding husbands in their own town."

"Well, I suppose if I was an actual cupcake I wouldn't have any trouble."

Steve flipped around in his sketchbook. "I think you're prettier now."

Inexplicably, she felt herself blush. "You're in the minority. But thank you."

He opened the book to a page closer to the front, turning it around to show her a drawing of herself in the ruffled dress and over-trimmed hat. "That's the cupcake." He flipped again, to a page much further along, much more recent. It was her, astride her horse and looking back over her shoulder. "That's you."

Stunned that he'd drawn her - repeatedly, apparently - she reached out and took the book from him, marking the two pages with her fingers. The cupcake picture was pretty, like a painting in a museum. But there was a . . . blandness to it. A flat beauty with no depth. The one on the horse was more realistic. There was dirt smudged on her forehead and shadows and light playing over her face. She could see the strong curve of her shoulder and back. Like she was about to take a breath and ride off the page.

She had to clear her throat a couple of times before she could speak. "You do like the real me better."

She could see him swallow. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."

It was going to be so hard to say goodbye to him when this little adventure was over. Hard enough to make her ponder ways of preventing it. It would never work, though. They led very different lives. That knowledge didn't stop her from saying, "I like you, too."

He grinned. "That's why this is so much fun."

The grin sufficiently lightened the mood. She handed back his sketch book. "Thank you for showing me your drawings."

"Don't spread that around, eh? Might ruin my rep."

"Your secret is safe with me."

The train pulled into the Oakland station a little before 5, and then they boarded a ferry to take them across the bay. They stood at the rails and watched the view. Between them, where no one could see, Steve reached down to hold her hand. She wove her fingers through his, resisting the urge to tilt her head and lean it on his shoulder. The hand was enough, almost more than her heart could take.

She was going to enjoy every minute of their time here and let the future take care of itself.

*

Steve checked them into a hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Rogers. Sharon didn't comment—but it was a nice hotel, and he didn't want them getting hassled. "I figure we'll get dinner," he told her as they went up the stairs. "Then we can get started. Picking up rumors in a city this size is going to take some time."

She nodded. "I can wire back to the office, see if there's any agents or contacts here I can get in touch with. Might save some time."

"I'm surprised you don't have a San Francisco office, come to think of it," he replied.

"When I get back, I'm going to recommend it. The West is getting bigger and more crowded. We're going to need a presence out here."

He turned off the stairwell at the fourth floor. "Maybe they'll give you the job."  
 She laughed. "I doubt it. Not sure desk work is for me, anyway. I'd miss field work."

"It can be nice to sleep in a real bed, though." He opened the door to their room. "Have a job where you don't half expect to die on the clock."

"I suppose." Speaking of beds, the room had a very nice one. Sharon walked to it and ran her fingertips over the coverlet. "That's been my life for so long, though. I don't know what I'd do with myself without it."

"Have babies? Learn to knit?"

Arching a brow, she looked over at him. "Seriously?"

"Miss Natasha killed someone with a knitting needle once. If legends are to be believed."

"Are she and Barton having babies?"

"They were the first, actually. Mathematically I think she may have already been pregnant during the big shootout, though probably not enough to know it yet. I assume." 

She smiled, but there was something oddly wistful to it. "How are they taking to it?"

"He bought a farm. They were expecting their second when the Marshals sent me on this adventure." He tilted his head. "The baby would have been born by now. I don't imagine we'll be here long enough to get mail."

"If we are, we're doing something wrong." She shook her head and glanced out the window at the city skyline. "You want that life?"

He came up beside her, also looking at their view. "In my daydreams."

"You could retire. Be a proper Sheriff to that town."

"The thought has crossed my mind." A silly, self-indulgent line of thinking it had been. It existed briefly in the space when he picked flowers for her frilly alter-ego, and then later while he tried to co-exist with all the happy little families.

Her fingers wove through his, just like they had on the boat, and she leaned into his side. She didn't say anything, but he had the distinct feeling she was thinking about those little bouquets as well. And was feeling just as melancholy. He cupped her cheek and turned her face up so he could kiss her. They had work to do. They needed to start looking for Merrick. But this was the only thing that was going to make the ache ease.

She melted into him, as she always seemed to, hands tangling in the back of his shirt as the kiss deepened. They were absolutely going to be late for dinner.

He tugged her shirt out of the waistband of her pants. "Can I--?" he asked, just in case she wanted to get to work.

With a breathy laugh, she said, "Always."

He undid the buttons and took it off her. "We're too tired from the train to do anything useful tonight."

"It's true. It was a long day." She tugged the end of her breast binding out and he unwound it for her. As always, she took a deep breath when it was gone.

"I wonder if we could make you something easier to breathe in," he commented.

"I'm not much of a seamstress."

"Bet we could find one in this city." In the meantime, he filled his hands with her breasts. They were a perfect fit. The nipples tightened as he watched and he couldn't help but stroke his thumbs over them

Sharon shuddered, making a small noise, then reached out to work on his shirt buttons. He bent his head so he could kiss her again, letting it get deeper as they both worked quickly to strip each other.

They left a haphazard pile of clothes on the floor on their way to the bed. There they fell, a tangle of limbs. "My cap," she murmured into his skin. "You want to help me put it in?"

"Where is it?"

"My bag. It's in a pouch on the side." She pointed in the general direction. He sat up and leaned over the side of the bed to fish out the little pouch. He held it up for confirmation. "That's the one. Bring it here."

He handed her the pouch, and then slid his hands up her thighs, pushing her legs apart. Untying the pouch, she laid the little circle of rubber on her stomach, low down. "There's a spot on the front wall that feels different. About a finger's length up. You want it to cover that spot completely."

He slid one finger into her to feel for the spot, then repeated it with the cap. There was something very, very intimate about this. More so than any of the sex they'd had. It was the sort of thing a husband might do for his wife. He pressed a kiss on her lower abdomen, just above the hair. "Good?"

She was breathing hard, but she nodded and gave him a brilliant smile. "Just perfect."

"Good," he replied, and moved his mouth lower. She moaned, hips lifting up to press her into his mouth. He was very grateful she was too distracted to make a frosting joke. But he did take his time, enjoying her as much as dessert. He traced a pattern with his tongue, one he knew would make her writhe and yank his hair.

Sure enough, her hand dug into his hair, pulling as she squirmed beneath him. She whispered, "Please, please." Then she was pulsing against his mouth, whole body shaking with her climax. He crawled up her body, so he could kiss her while she came back down. With one hand he gently brushed her hair off her brow, and waited for her to open her eyes.

When she did, she smiled lazily and reached up to stroke his cheek. "You're very good at that."

"Well. You taste good."

"Like a cupcake?"

He closed his eyes and started to laugh. He laughed so hard he rolled off her—thank God the bed was big enough. "Jesus."

She curled closer, hand flattening on his chest and sliding over his skin. "I couldn't resist."

"I'm going to blush every time I'm in a pastry shop."

"Mmm. I find that adorable."

He pulled her close enough to kiss, so she was half sprawled across his chest. "Adorable is for later."

She sank into the kiss, swinging her leg over so she was straddling him. "I'd hate to go out of order," she murmured, sliding against him so he could feel the heat of her sex against his shaft.

He ran his hands along her legs, and up her body. "Right now I need this."

With a noise somewhat like a purr, she straightened and shifted her hips. Notching him at her entrance, she slid down, taking him inch by agonizingly slow inch, until he was buried deep inside. She sighed softly. "God you feel good."

"So do you," he breathed. He loved watching her like this, watching them move together and give each other pleasure.

She moved slowly at first, muscles rippling under her skin, breasts swaying. He swore she was utterly perfect. She reached out and caught his hands, weaving their fingers together and using them to brace herself to move faster. The bed creaked and clanged, but he didn't care. So what if half the floor knew what they were doing. Then she bent close enough he could lean up and capture one nipple in his mouth.

Her fingers squeezed his and she groaned, shuddering. She gave a few more rough, deep thrusts before she started to clench around him, driving him deep as she rode it out. He held on as long as he could, and then lifted up to her as he let go. "Fuck," he growled.

Sharon sank down onto his chest, nuzzling his throat as they both tried to catch their breath. 

Eventually, he murmured, "That was better than dinner."

"By far," she agreed.

"Let's just ditch the job and spend a week in this bed." It was a really comfortable bed.

"I don't think we can do that." He felt a little pang at the fact she had to be the responsible one. Then she added, "When it's done, though, we should spend two weeks."

"Sounds like fun." It was probably a pipe dream, but he didn't want to admit out loud. Not yet. Not with her warm and soft in his arms. She slid off of him after a little while, reaching out to wrap the edge of the quilt up and around herself. She burrowed into his side with a happy little sigh. "We probably are going to get hungry," he murmured. "Eventually."

"Just enjoy the current moment," she told him. "Even if it is fleeting."

He kissed her brow. "Yes, ma'am."

*

Sharon felt Steve get out of bed, and bend to kiss her brow. "I'll be back in a bit," he whispered, as she drifted back to sleep. When she woke again she smelled food, and Steve was standing at the room's table, opening little boxes.

She sat up and stretched, running her fingers through her hair. "You got us dinner?"

"I did. Everything is closed downstairs, but the lady at the desk told me if I felt brave there was a place a couple blocks over in Chinatown that sold food to night workers. I have no idea what any of this stuff is, but it smells good."

Putting clothes on was remarkably unappealing. So she just slid out of bed and joined him at the table. "It does smell fantastic."

"They didn't have utensils, just sticks." He held one up. "I dug our spoons out of our kits." He gestured at their road gear with the stick.

Together they tried just about everything. Sharon liked the odd, meat filled dumplings the best, especially with the salty-spicy sauce they came with. "Excellent grub," she said as she went in for a second one. "Well done, Steve."

"So I was thinking about Merrick," he said, giving up on the sticks and picking up a piece of broccoli with his fingers.

"What have you decided?"

"I haven't decided anything. I'm just thinking about what he might be doing in San Francisco. Could be just to fence the necklace and flee. But then I think. . . high end thief like that? Would he really leave the biggest and most civilized city west of the Mississippi without another score?"

She sucked grease off her thumb, considering. "This is a town full of marks. But if we narrow it down we'd have a shot at catching him in the act."

He stared at her mouth for a moment, then looked back at his noodles. "As far as I can tell, he targets wealthy people, and steals luxury items that can be easily fenced."

"Most of the wealthy people here are a little wilder and armed than they are back east. He'd need to get them while they're distracted."

"I've noticed some big mansions up on the hill west of us. Rich people build those houses to show them off via social events."

"Yes, they do." She thought a moment. "If I pretty up a bit I'm sure I can make the rounds to some dress shops and tea rooms. Pick up some gossip."

"Stalk him through some ballrooms? That sounds up your alley." There was encouragement and admiration in his voice. It occurred to her not long ago, there would have been a jab in there.

"I haven't been able to do any proper spying in ages," she said. "And you like how I looking dresses."

He grinned back. "Can we get some with some décolletage this time?"

She was pretty sure she was blushing, which was silly considering she was naked and eating Chinese food with him. "With the styles lately? Most definitely."

His eyes roamed her openly, belying the steady and business-like tone of voice. "Good, while you're looking into that, I'll see if I can figure out where he might be able to hock these sorts of pieces. That necklace is pretty distinct, maybe he's made inquiries."

"That sounds like the best use of both our resources and skills," she agreed.

"The joke I want to make now about our resources and skills is surprisingly hard to hold back."

She twirled a lock of hair around a finger. "Aw, Rogers. Don't tease if you're not gonna back it up."

He nodded at her carton. "Finish your food and then I'll show you."

Deliberately, she grabbed another dumpling and munched, holding his gaze. She wouldn't have thought it possible to make food this odd and greasy sexy. But with her and Steve it didn't seem to matter.

They didn't get a whole lot of sleep that night.

In the morning they kissed in the doorway, and went off on their separate missions. It was nice, she had to admit, to be able to split things up, and each do what they were best at. First order of her morning was to wire back east for more funding, and to have her Society Wardrobe shipped out as quickly as possible. She could buy a ballgown in San Francisco, but a selection of French silk would help her fit in much better. 

She'd start with the middle-class shops, who'd sell her something better than the simple dress she'd bought in Sacramento, and tell her what the better shops were. She'd work her way up, until she found a couple of society ladies to discretely tail.

Shops were easy to find. Sharon paced the street a while, window shopping and watching customers come and go, before picking one to enter. It was the middlest of the middle class shops and she was greeted immediately. After cranking up the charm as high as possible she had two good dresses as well as a warm coat. "It gets quite cold at night here," the extremely helpful and chatty girl told her. She also had a headful of names and locations to try from better clothes and more information.

She walked the city the rest of the afternoon, wanting to get a feel for the locations and how people moved around. The bustle and noise reminded her very much of back east, with a very hefty dose of dirt, sand, and rough frontier. She had some tea, and visited a popular milliner, which lead her to her her next target, a dress shop called Madame Maxine. The woman who owned it, supposedly, was a wizard.

It was closed, but she had a place to start tomorrow, and that was enough to head back with. Steve was waiting in the hotel, with two bowls of soup.

"Oh, you are my favorite person," she told him, sinking into the chair across from him. It had been intended as a joke, but it had come out a bit more sincerely than that. It occurred to her it might be true.

He grinned at her, like he hadn't picked up on it—or he had, and liked it. "Figured your day involved as much hill hiking as mine and you'd be hungry."

"Starving." She scooped up a spoonful and blew across it. "How was your mission?"

"No sign of the necklace, though I did hear an odd story multiple times, that I don't know what to make of." He slurped his soup straight from the bowl. "Do you have anything on Merrick's background?"

She shook her head. "Just his name and MO. I heard her did some stuff in Boston before coming to New York, but nothing concrete."

"I kept hearing about a man—assuming it's an actual real person—who shows up every couple of months with gold, silver, and jewels, and distributes them among the poor. Like Robin Hood. The Chinese call him Shuiyin."

"Huh. I heard something similar in New York, before I came out west. People in the slums finding coin pouches on their doorsteps. They'd catch glimpses of him but he'd be gone before they could say thank you." She sipped her soup. "You think it's him?"

"I don't know. If it is. . . shit, nobody's going to give that man up."

"No. No they are not." There was a loaf of warm, crusty sourdough in the middle of the table and she tore some off to dip in her soup. "This makes our job significantly harder."

"We'll have to catch him stealing, which is a little more. . . high stakes. I have no idea how dangerous this man is." He sighed heavily. "And if he's robbing the Robber Barons to the benefit of cold and hungry children. . ." He shook his head. And here she thought Marshal Rogers valued the rule and enforcement of laws.

"You're thinking of just letting him go about his business?" she ventured.

She watched his jaw flex, and then he tore off a piece of bread. "I was a cold and hungry kid."

"Hey, I'm not judging." She lifted a shoulder. "I just want the necklace. If you want to leave him be then my story is he got away and his trail went cold. I believe in justice, not the law."

"I suppose I don't disagree. It's just literally my job."

"And you always get your man?"

He dipped his bread in his soup. "That I do."

That level if confidence was remarkably attractive. "Well, I suppose we can cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Could be Shuiyin isn't him. That would make it much easier. I have a couple of leads to chase yet. Some say he has a woman. Some say more than one. If that's true, a jilted lover might be a useful source. Woman scorned and all that."

Sharon smiled and propped her chin on a hand. "We do tend to want vengeance."

"That a warning?"

"I wouldn't think you'd need one."

Something like sadness crossed his features. "No, I suppose not."

She had intended to mean he knew her well enough to know the answer. Or perhaps that he was a good enough man to not hurt her. But she sensed he hadn't taken it that way. He went back to his soup, giving it his full attention, and she looked at the top of his blond head. Maybe it was already impossible for them not to hurt each other.


	6. In Old California

They spent the night taking each other apart. It occurred to Steve they ought to sleep more, but he didn't care. He wanted what time they had.

It was dark and quiet, the rest of the hotel probably fast asleep. He was listening to her heart beat slow to normal as she stroked her fingers through his damp hair. "Would you ever come back east?" Sharon asked softly.

"I suppose eventually I'll go back to Kansas. Bucky's there, and he's the only family I have." Trisklelion was equal parts comforting and suffocating. He kind of missed it when he was gone, and yet he felt out of place when he was there. "The place is crazy, but the people are good."

"Crazy people are often the best kind," she said, fingers sliding down to rub his neck gently. "I meant back East as is New York, but I suppose you still answered my question."

It was hard to see her expression in the darkness, but he felt like it wasn't entirely a casual question. "I went back to New York after the war. Bucky and I both. It was a little like a shoe that didn't fit. In hindsight I'm not at all surprised he ran."

"I understand." She was now doing marvelous things to the muscles in his shoulders. "It's hard for people like us to find the right shoe."

"I think I used to be a regular guy once," he replied. "Then I went to war. Still haven't really figured out the man who came home."

"The war did that to everyone, in one way or another. I like what I know of you."

"I still have nightmares sometimes," he told her, surprising himself with the admission. Nothing specific, just that I'm back in the middle of a battle."

She was quiet a moment, then confessed quietly, "So do I."

He turned his head enough to kiss the top swell of her breast, a gentle touch of comfort and empathy. "Maybe the war will never really, truly be over. At least not for those who fought it."

"Maybe it's for the best. If it haunts us then it means we'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again. I think the war made me a better person, even if it made me a harder one."

"Certainly made me harder. Not so sure about the better part."

"I didn't know you before," she admitted. "But I think war is like. . . polishing a stone. Something good quality it will bring out the shine, the facets. On something weak or flawed it brings those out."

"Well. I was certainly weak. And I suppose we're all flawed."

He felt her chuckle under his ear. "I swear, you misinterpret me on purpose sometimes." She kissed the top of his head. "Learn to take a compliment, Rogers."

That made him smile. "I think you think I'm a better man than I am. I've seen and done some awful things."

"So have I. So have a lot of people. But despite that. Despite all the darkness you've seen and the things you've lost. You still manage to be kind."

He didn't feel kind, not most of the time. "This is one of those 'take a compliment' things, isn't it?"

"It is." She kissed his head again. "Everyone should have one person who thinks they're better than they think they are. Gives you something to strive for."

Steve sighed, stroking his hand over her stomach. "Maybe you make me better."

The muscles tightened and twitched under his palm. "We do make a very good team," she said softly.

That was about more than the hunt now. But it was once of the things that would probably always remain unsaid. He let his hand drift lower. "Are you tired?"

She sighed softly and her hand curled over his shoulder. "Not at all."

They probably woke up some of the rest of the hotel after that.

It was cold in the morning, and they dressed quickly so they could go get some breakfast. It was only in the light did he notice the bruise where her neck met her shoulder. "Are you going to get fitted for a dress today?" he asked conversationally.

"If I can get into the modiste. She's apparently rather exclusive." She tossed him a grin. "Why? Do you have requests?"

"No, but you may want to make sure you introduce yourself as _Mrs._ Whomever."

Her brow furrowed. "Why?" He smirked and gestured at the mirror over the dresser, which she went to look in. Tilting her neck, she scowled when she spotted the bruise. "Dammit."

Whirling on her heel she strode over to him. He was afraid he was gonna get socked but instead she grabbed him collar and yanked him down for a kiss. "I knew you'd be bad for business," she muttered.

Briefly he considered lifting her up against the wall. "Didn't hear you complaining while you were getting it."

"Hmm. Next time I have you naked I'm going to scratch your back up good. So you remember who's boss."

"I'll take you up on that," he murmured, and then made himself step back. "Tonight."

She winked. "Count on it." She rummaged in her bags and tied a strip of filmy fabric around her throat to hide the mark, before gathering up her reticule and heading out the door.

After breakfast, they parted company and he resumed his search. He was going with the line he was an old war buddy of Merrick's. Occasionally he'd imply he was owed money, depending on who he was dealing with. But he also found himself interested in this Shuiyin character—who wasn't Chinese, despite the nickname. People in Chinatown weren't particularly fond of many white men. The whole thing piqued Steve's curiosity.

Of course, being unfond of white men meant they weren't too eager to talk to him. He had been reliably told he all but stank of law man, too, which he was sure didn't help. Still, he went back to the restaurant he'd gotten their dinner at and asked a few questions over soup. The lady who ran the place admitted no one had actually spoken to Shuiyin but that several families had been helped by him and many of the children had gotten food and small toys from him.

"There is a woman," she said eventually. 

Steve tried not to sound too interested. "Oh?"

"She works in a Barbary Coast brothel. One of the really nice ones. Maybe she's his favorite whore. I don't know. But I've heard, if you need Shuiyin, you tell her."

That was very useful knowledge. "Thank you." He gestured to his bowl. "This is delicious, by the way."

"Thank you," she replied. "You want some to take home to your girl?"

He checked his watch. It was late enough, Sharon would probably be back at the hotel soon, if not already. "Yes, please."

She packed up containers for him. "If you do him harm, I'd expect it to stir up a lot of trouble."

Steve sighed. "Yeah. I can see that."

"There's too little good in the world. He does good."

"I can't dispute that. But he is still a thief." The words sounded half-hearted even to his ears, and the look she gave him indicated she saw right through him.

"Do you think the people he steals from miss their shiny things more than the poor miss the meals they can't afford to eat?"

He remembered being a boy, standing in the park watching ladies in fancy dresses tossing bread to the ducks, and he hadn't eaten in two days. They wouldn't have given him their stale bread ends if he'd asked. "Not for a second."

She nodded, as if she'd just made a momentous point. "Life isn't fair. Sometimes you get a chance to make it so."

He took the boxes she gave him. "Thanks." He smiled at her. "You got a name?" 

"You can call me May."

"Steve Rogers. I appreciate your help."

*

It took half the morning, but Sharon finally managed to get an appointment with Madame Maxine herself. Who turned out to be a girl a few years younger than Sharon, with a thick accent she couldn't place. She was very pretty, dark hair silky and perfectly coiffed, dressed in rich, almost scandalous scarlet. She treaded the line between friendly and aloof, with the faintest air of European superiority.

"You need a dress for the ball, yes?" Maxine said. "The Fitzsimmons throw a party and suddenly I am the most popular woman in the city."

Sharon smiled innocently. "Everyone I spoke to told me you were the best."

"I am the best." She looked Sharon up and down. "Blue yes? Something provocative. Drive your man mad," she added with a gesture to the poorly disguised hicky on her neck.

She felt her cheeks heat, despite herself. "He doesn't need a whole lot of help with that."

Maxine smiled and it looked remarkably genuine. "It's always good to remind them."

She could just imagine how he'd look at her in one of these dresses. Perhaps she'd see a little of how he used to look at her back in Triskelion. Like she was fragile and precious. Not that she was or even wanted to be either of those things, but the sentiment was nice. It washed away the years and made her feel young.

Or he'd look at her like he wanted to take the dress off with his teeth. Which was _also_ perfectly fine.

Once it was clear she was interested in a dress and willing to spend, Maxine opened up. Of course, it was hard not to bond a bit while a woman was measuring your every nook and cranny. She showed her an assortment of silks and laces, all in shades of blue. It was a rare modiste that didn't even give you a vote on color.

"Everyone has a color. Mine, you see, is a dark red. You, a good cobalt blue."

"I do like blue," she agreed. "And so does my man, for that matter."

Maxine made little notes on the pad she'd recorded measurements on. "You should not worry so much about him."

Sharon frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"He makes you a little melancholy. You worry over his favor, no?"

"No." Well, that wasn't entirely true. "At least, I don't worry there's another woman, or anything. He's just. . . well, his job is very important."

"You think it's more important than you?"

"I think he thinks it is."

"Ah, yes. They do that because they don't know better." She pointed to a swatch in Sharon's lap. "I like that one best, if you're having trouble deciding."

She fingered the swatch of rich blue. The party was a job, like any other. She really shouldn't wear something distracting and eye catching. But she did miss that feeling she'd got when he courted her. And she loved the look in his eye when he wanted to take her apart. So she nodded. "Yes, this one. And let's make sure the neckline leaves him no room to think about work."

Maxine grinned, delighted. "Lovely. You'll need a smashing necklace, of course."

Oh, thank God, a way to get this back to her mission. "I don't think any of mine will match." She met Maxine's eyes in the mirror. "Can you recommend somewhere to find a new one?"

"I could recommend you a shop that sells quite an eclectic assortment. . . though it is not in the nicest part of town. A friend of mine operates it."

With practiced nonchalance she said, "Oh, that sounds just my type of place. Could you give me the name?"

"I'll write it down for you," she said, flipping a page and scribbling on it. "You tell the proprietor that Maxine sent you."

"I will do that."

She tore off the paper, folded it, and handed it over. "You'll come back Wednesday for a fitting?"

"I'll be here." In the mean time, she'd find out exactly where and when the Fitzsimmons party was being held.

All in all, she was quite proud of herself as she headed back to the hotel. There was a telegram for her, the office back east had shipped her trunk west by train, and it should be there in a week or so. The idea that you could get something across the entire continent in a week astonished. God knows what that cost. But she'd need it if she was going to spend some time faking being a society lady.

She had not told the office she'd acquired a partner in her task.

Steve was up there already when she returned to their room, unpacking more containers of Chinese food. It smelled utterly divine and she shed her hat, gloves and reticule before joining him at the table. "Hello, sweet," she said, kissing his cheek.

"Hello. My day was better than yesterday, how about you?"

"Same. I have a lead on someone selling fancy jewelry." She sank into a chair and opened one of the containers. "And we're going to a party on Saturday."

He looked down at his clothing. "Are we now?"

"Yes," she told him solemnly. "Don't worry, I found you somewhere that can make you a suit quickly."

"I haven't worn a dinner suit in. . ." He shook his head. "Ever. Seriously, do you want to take me to something like that? I know less than nothing about fancy manners. Except that apparently I hold my fork wrong, according to Mrs. Stark."

"We're in San Francisco, not New York. I'm certain you won't be the only one using the wrong utensil. I can give you a crash course, if you're nervous. But this ball is supposed to be the social event of the month. All the muckety mucks will be there, with their women and their jewelry. Perfect place for a guy like Merrick to score."

He popped a dumpling in his mouth and chewed. "So I got some intel on Shuiyin. Apparently there's a girl at a whorehouse by the waterfront who knows him."

"There are easier ways to get me to visit a brothel with you."

He raised his eyebrows. "Very funny. I'm not a fan of paying for sex."

"Really?" She tried some of the soup. "I knew you didn't visit anyone at Nat's, but I figured it was because you were busy."

He lifted a shoulder. "Not my cup of tea. I don't know, it just doesn't feel right."

Before she could stop herself, she asked, "How long had it been before me?"

He ate another dumpling before he answered. "Couple of years." He tilted his head, thinking. "Well. Five."

Her mouth opened and closed a couple times. "How did you get so good at it?"

That made him laugh. "Am I?"

"Yes. You are. And I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur."

She could see his cheeks pink, just a little. "I tend to be good at most things I try."

Stretching, she stole one of the dumplings. "I'm happy to give you lots of practice."

His eyes roamed over her in a way that warmed her. "Weren't we talking about work?"

"We might have been." She tried a sip of the tea he'd brought up and was pleasantly surprised at the mild, almost floral flavor. "I find you extremely distracting."

"I can put a bag over my head if that will help."

Grinning, she reached out with a foot and rubbed his leg. "There'd still be all the rest of you."

"There I can't help you." He pointed at her with one of the sticks, which he'd mastered eating with with a speed that baffled her. "Focus. I will ravish you later."

She liked teasing him. Even beyond sex and flirting and working with him. She _liked_ him. And that was very new. "As you wish," she said.

"So," he said. "I think there are about a thousand brothels down in that area. I have no idea how to find one particular woman."

"You didn't get a name?" He shook his head. "I can ask around."

"You think the people you're talking to on the high end are going to know about wharf brothels?"

She chuckled. "I didn't say I'd be asking society people. This is not the only outfit I have," she added, with a gesture to her silk and brocade.

"I kind of miss your riding pants," he said. She'd been in dresses since Sacramento, to fit the part she was playing for the moment. 

"Not as much as I miss them." She sipped more of her soup. "I can go down and start asking around. Looking for an old friend or something. I'll refine the story once I get a feel for the place. But they're more likely to talk to a woman. And I know just enough to sound authentic."

"Conversely, a jewelry store is more likely to take a man seriously. You said you got a name?"

"She wrote it down for me. It's in my bag." She dug it out, and handed it over to him.

Steve frowned down at it. "How do you pronounce that? Taschengregger?"

*

Early the next morning, they parted ways again, Sharon to arrange him a suit fitting, and Steve to find the jeweler. The neighborhood was south of Chinatown, and was not so much a bad neighborhood as a Jewish neighborhood. He supposed to the society ladies that visited that dress shop, it still warranted a warning. 

The sign painted on the window said Taschengregger Goldsmiths, and the door jingled when he stepped in. There were several customers inside, all of whom stopped to stare at him, tall and blonde and visibly Irish. Back in New York, ethnic communities did _not_ mix, but San Francisco seemed a bit different. They'd fed him in Chinatown.

Tipping his hat politely, he did a slow, casual circuit of the room, glancing at some of the cases, before stopping at the largest. There was some nice stuff, though nothing he recognized from the list of Merrick's goods. A man materialized on the other side of the counter and Steve said, in his least-lawman voice, "I'm in the market for a necklace."

"What sort of necklace? And for whom?"

"It's for my wife." It was remarkable how easily that rolled off the tongue. "We're going to a party this weekend and she insists her new dress needs a new necklace. Her dressmaker, Miss Maxine, said this was the place to come."

The man's whole face changed, and he chuckled. "I suppose she would."

That reaction was very interesting. "She send you a lot of business, I bet."

"Certain ladies, at least. Are you looking to match a dress, I assume?"

"Yes." It was all for show, but Steve couldn't help feeling a little bit of male pride at the idea of buying Sharon something to wear with one of her fancy dresses.

He raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Color?"

Steve cleared his throat. "Sorry. Uh, blue. She said it was dark blue." The jeweler turned away, looking in the case beside them. After a moment, Steve added, "Thought I don't think all blue is good, that's too much matching."

He straightened, holding a necklace with sapphires, and Steve frowned. "Did you hear me?"

"I did not, as I can not. I'm reading your lips, so I have to be looking at you. I wish she'd warn people. Were you saying no blue?"

Nothing about this case was normal. Still, he was impressed the man had shown no sign of the disability. "Yes. Sorry. I thought it would be too much blue. Can you recommend something else? Diamonds, maybe?"

"Diamonds, I have." He turned again, and a moment later there was a selection on the counter. They looked very modest, he hadn't brought out the fancy things. Steve expected he'd sized him up and put out things he seemed likely to buy. Maybe he should have done this _after_ Sharon found him somewhere to get suits.

"You have anything bigger? I want everyone to know I take care of my girl."

He inclined his head, and opened another case. Then a big, dark-haired man came out of the back, glanced at Steve, and tapped the jeweler on the shoulder. The two made a complicated series of hand gestures at each other, in what seemed like a conversation. Steve had never seen anything like it. There seemed to be some discord in the gesturing, and then the man went back behind the curtain.

The jeweler rubbed his forehead. "Sorry. My brother-in-law."

"I - Is there a problem?" That might have sounded a little lawman-like, but hopefully that was a matter of inflection and not visible.

"No." He sighed, and sounded irritated when he said, "Don't suppose you're interested in emeralds?"

Now they were getting somewhere. He lifted his shoulder casually. "I'll take a look. Even if I can't use it for this party her birthday is comin' up."

The jeweler looked him up and down. "It's pretty expensive."

"Nothing's too good for her."

He gave Steve a hard stare for a moment, then disappeared into the back. He returned a moment later with a box, and lifted the lid. Inside was a necklace. _The_ necklace.

He hoped whatever reaction was on his face could be explained away by how very extravagant the necklaces was. "That. . . is something else," he managed to get out.

"Yes. My brother-in-law isn't the brightest lamp, and I shouldn't have left him with the shop." He snapped the box closed. "He bought it off of someone who wandered in, no questions asked. Now I have to try and sell it, and I don't exactly have the Stark family waltzing in my door."

Steve couldn't help smiling at that. "No, I suppose not. What are you asking for it?"

"I'll take what he paid for it, which is $600. It's worth quite a bit more, but again. . ." He shrugged. "I'd kind of like it out of my shop."

Six hundred dollars was more than Steve had or could reasonably get. He doubted the Marshals would front that sort of cash. Though, the Pinkertons might send it to Sharon. She had to be getting money for suits and ball gowns from somewhere.

This was probably where he should whip out his star and confiscate stolen goods. But that meant blowing cover. And he still wasn't entirely sure this guy wasn't in on this whole mess. So he gave a chagrined smile. "Well, I'm going to have to think about that."

"As I expected. Well, we are open every day but Saturday."

"I will definitely be back."

He met Sharon for lunch, and she informed him he had an appointment to be fitted for a dinner suit that afternoon. She asked him how the jeweler went, and the lie just fell out of his mouth. "Definitely fishy. I may go back tomorrow."

Why did he say that? He should tell her about the necklace. He knew he should. But somehow he couldn't. She would go get it and then this would be over, and he just couldn't stand the thought right then. He'd tell her soon. He would.

She believed him right away, which made him feel bad. "It's disappointing," she admitted. "But not surprising. Hell, I'm half convinced we're finding all new conspiracies and cases while we look."

"You want company brothel hunting tonight? Or am I on my own?" 

"I think you'd probably cramp my style," she told him. "But if you felt the need to keep an eye on me from a distance, I'd allow it."

He chuckled. "I am neither your husband nor your father, and you are more than capable of handling yourself. Arm up good."

"Yes, dear. Think you can handle the tailor alone?"

"Hopefully I'll get through it without having to shoot someone."

"That should be a goal." She wiped her hands and mouth with a napkin. He'd noticed her manners changed with what clothes she was wearing, probably not even consciously. "I'll be back late, I don't know if you'll be awake or not."

"I probably will be." He absolutely would be. He wouldn't sleep until she was back safe.

She smiled widely. "Then I’ll see you later, I suppose."

He reached out to touch her hand. "Be safe," he said quietly.

Weaving her fingers with his, she leaned over and kissed him. "You, too."


	7. Robin Hood of the Pecos

Finding people was something Sharon was good at. It occurred to her, occasionally, that she could have a very lucrative career as a bounty hunter, if she ever got tired of the Pinkertons. It didn't take her all that long to find a lead on the woman she was looking for—her name was Ora, and she was Spanish. Eventually she found the right brothel. The thing that caused the most delay had been Sharon's assumption that the woman _worked_ there. As it turned out, she owned the brothel.

"I own the building," she corrected as she waved Sharon to a seat in her private parlor. "I provide rooms, cleaning, and security to the ladies who work here. I can't say I'd call myself a madam."

In that moment, she reminded Sharon a bit of Nat, who had functioned similarly. Most women in the west were prostitutes of one kind or another. Finding a place who promised security without robbing you blind was rare. No wonder she'd been hard to find. "Then I won't call you one either."

"You've come for work? The waitlist has quite a number of names on it."

"No, thank you. I'm actually looking for someone and I'm told you are the person to ask."

"Ah. Let me guess, _Mercurio_?" She closed her eyes. "This is really getting out of hand."

This guy collected nicknames like a magpie. "I assume it's the same man. Can you tell me how long he's been here? In California?"

Ora looked at her. "Why?"

Sharon wove her story carefully, keeping vague enough not to be disproved, but with enough detail to seem authentic. "Well, almost a year ago an old friend of mine fell on hard times. This was back East, in Boston. I was trying to get some funds together to help her, when someone left her a pouch of coins. Enough to pay her rent the next three months. Others in the neighborhood had similar things happen. Well, I came out west with my man and I had some supper at a Chinese place near our hotel. I hear some of them talking about a man doing something similar here and I knew I had to find him." She lifted a shoulder. "We've had some luck, I wanted to thank him, maybe give him a bit of gold to pass onto the next one that needed it. Do unto others, my Uncle always says." Uncle Coulson was more of a shoot 'em all and let God sort them out type, but that wasn't the act she was currently playing.

Ora made a pained noise and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Other cities. God, he's going to get himself shot."

"I promise I won't tell anyone," Sharon said earnestly.

"I can pass along your thanks, and if you'd like to contribute to his cause, you can also leave that with me. But he doesn't meet people."

But he met with _her_. Or she had a way of getting him things. Reaching in her pocket, Sharon pulled a little pouch of gold dust out and handed it over. "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

There was yelling in the hallway outside the door, and Ora lept up. "Stay here," she said firmly, stepping around Sharon to crack the door and look out. Now Sharon could hear an angry male voice yelling in a heavy, if drunken, German accent. Ora shouted back in what sounded like actual German, then turned her head and yelled something else, in a different, slavic-sounding language. A different man's voice called back, and then a moment later he was talking to the drunk. It was English now, with a distinct accent she couldn't place, but was familiar nonetheless.

Curious, Sharon got up to stand behind Ora. "You run an interesting place here."

"I run a safe place. Some men don't like that they can't smack the ladies around."

She really did like this woman. She hoped removing Merrick wouldn't ruin her business or anything. "Well, I'll be on my way."

"One minute," she said, holding up a hand. "I don't want you to get hurt." Sharon found that funny, but couldn't exactly explain. "I hired a kid who herds the assholes." Over her shoulder she could see a dark haired, muscular man shoving the drunk German out the front door. 

He turned back to the crowd, grinning, and Sharon felt a little jolt of recognition. The wanted poster had been a poor sketch, based on a combination of several half seen glimpses from his victims. But they'd gotten a few things right. The curve of his jaw and the shape of his eyes. The shock of dark hair.

She was looking at Merrick, in a building full of people that would probably take his side over hers. If she was right about him being Shuiyin, then the whole damn neighborhood might raise up to keep her from hauling him out.

Ora was watching her, so she did her best to keep her expression neutral. The other woman didn't look suspicious—but then she suspected women staring at that man were not unusual, without any nefarious intention. "Go make sure he doesn't loiter on the sidewalk," she called at Merrick.

He gave a jaunty salute and called, "Yes, ma'am," in that maddeningly familiar accent, before ducking through the doors. 

Ora opened the door fully, and made a waving motion with her hand. "Go ahead. Sorry about that."

Sharon nodded. "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

"Thank you for coming to see us. Your money will be put to good use, I promise." It was probably unconscious that she looked in the direction Merrick had gone. "There are a lot of riches in San Francisco, and a lot of suffering."

"Yes, there is," Sharon said quietly. She was used to seeing poverty and people at the end of their rope. The west was full of people who had gambled it all and failed. But there was nothing like the social and economic duality of a boom town. You were either successful or you were one of the people the successful people used.

It was dark and cold, with tendrils of fog snaking their way through the city when she got back to the hotel. Steve was awake, sitting in a chair by the fire, drinking whiskey.

It was remarkably nice to come home to someone. In theory, she lived with her uncle when she was in New York. But they were rarely home at the same time and kept no servants. Often as not she came home to a cold, empty house, or a lonely hotel room. Not since her parents had died had she come home to someone she cared for, keeping the lights on and the fire going for her.

"Hello," she said softly.

"Hey," he replied. He sighed heavily. "I found the necklace."

Her mouth opened and closed, her discoveries momentarily forgotten. "I- At the tailor?"

His eyes were aimed in the vicinity of her shoulder. "No, no. It was at the jeweler."

"From this morning?" She sank into the chair across from him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He took a drink from the bottle, and then offered it to her. "I thought maybe that would be it."

She took the bottle but didn't drink. "What do you mean, it?"

Finally he looked at her. The fire was low, and it was dim enough it was hard to read his expression in the flickering light. "You'll have the necklace. Your job would be done."

The words struck her like a blow. Now she did take a drink. "Oh Steve. I know why you'd think that. But. . . I wouldn't just leave."

"But we are almost at the end now, aren't we?"

They were closer than they had been when she'd left this evening and that thought depressed her utterly. She'd never been a coward, so she said, "I'm not ready to be done with you."

He closed his eyes. "So we hide here?"

"I don't know. I don't have answers. But I don't think the end of this case is the end of us anymore." Even if they lived in different places and their jobs weren't entirely compatible. It was probably impossible. He knew it, too. She could see it on his face. But he didn't say anything, he just stood up and held his hand down to her.

She put the bottle down and slid her hand into his standing when he tugged on her. For a moment they just stood there, sharing each other's space, breathing the other's air. Then she went on tiptoe and he leaned down and they were kissing. That first night, it had been lust and stress and ghosts. Now it was full of tenderness and longing, for a future that probably couldn't be. His hands were gentle as he tugged her shirt out of her pants and unbuttoned it enough to pull it off. He brushed his fingertips over the knife between her breasts, an oddly affectionate look on his face.

"I like this you best," he whispered.

She smiled and unhooked her gun belt, setting it on her chair. "I think you're the only one who sees her." Her fingers went for his buttons. "Lot of people see me without clothes. No one sees me naked."

"I think you're the only one who really sees me, either. At least, the man beneath the duty and the badge. I'm far more scared kid that war hero." He rolled his shoulders, shrugging his shirt off, and she spread her hands on his chest.

"I like him," she told him. "The man you are with me. Whoever he is."

"When I'm with you, I like him, too." He found the edge of her breast band and started to unwind it. While he did that, she unfastened his pants. A few minutes later they got all the clothing discarded and they were naked in the firelight. He trailed his fingers over her skin and she shivered, more from the touch than the cold. "It's worth it. However it ends."

She wasn't entirely sure that was true. She didn't really want to get her heart broken, not after protecting it so well all these years. But she couldn't control the outcome of this. Only hope for her best and do what she could to fight for them. So she smiled and kissed him, going easily when he nudged her to lie down in front of the fire.

He stretched out next to her. "This is the warmest spot in this room."

"You like to be warm," she said, stroking a hand along his jaw. She knew him very well. All these little things. He woke with the dawn no matter how she wore him out. He hated to be cold and always needed one more blanket than she did. 

He bent to kiss her collarbone. "There were some very cold nights sleeping outside during the war. The cold seeps into your bones."

"My poor Steve," she murmured, kissing the top of his head.

He kissed his way down over the top of her breast. "Life has improved lately."

She chuckled. "I should think so." She felt him smile against her skin, and slide his hands down over her body. He knew just how to touch her now. How to wind her up and make her squirm. Which he seemed to delight in doing.

Sharon closed her eyes and gave herself over to it. The feel of his hands and mouth and the heat of the fire. This was all so temporary. Yet she'd give anything to make it last forever.

When she was near her limit she tugged at him. "My cap," she mumbled. 

He kissed her. "Don't move." He stood in one smooth motion she enjoyed watching. He found it in the drawer by the bed and returned to put it in for her. Then he knelt and lifted her into his lap.

Curling her hands behind his neck, she lifted on her knees, waiting until he had his rock hard erection lined up with her entrance. She kissed him, easing down ever so slightly, so that he was notched properly and could release himself to hold her again. "Like this?" she whispered, rocking and taking him inside, inch by slow inch.

"God," he growled. "Yes, yes." He stroked his hands along her back, but didn't try to steer her, and let her set the pace.

Normally, she wasn't one for patience. But her heart was aching with all the things they couldn't seem to say to each other. This was the only way she knew to let him know how much he meant to her. So she kept it slow, drawing out the moment she took him to the hilt. When she did have him fully buried inside her, she was still a moment, forehead resting on his, panting, memorizing the feel and the look and the smell of him. So that it would sink in her bones where she could never forget him. 

His hands framed her hips and he tilted her, somehow managing to get a little deeper inside her. As if he wanted to make sure they were as close as possible. They held each others eyes for a handful of heartbeats, before he moved just enough to nuzzle his mouth against hers. The kiss that followed was intimate and intense.

She kept the kiss up as she began to move again. His hair was damp with sweat when she tangled her fingers in it. He held her, braced her, gave her the freedom to move and depend on him at the same time. And if that wasn't the definition of what she'd always wanted in a man she didn't know what was. 

Pleasure started to tighten, small and subtle at first, sitting low in her belly right above where they were joined. It grew quickly, spreading through her abdomen and chest, making her limbs heavy. She lifted her mouth from his, trying to catch her breath. "I'm close," she whispered, barely aware of what she was saying. "I can feel - I can't -"

"Let go," he murmured into her mouth. "I've got you."

Her fingertips dug into his neck. "Steve, Steve, _Steve_." The last wave of pleasure crashed through her and she was gone, shuddering around him. She drove herself down on him, taking him deep, but her hips kept rocking, moving her around him. She wanted to draw out the pleasure, to pull him with her. He groaned, his arms tightening as he thrust up to her. Then he made a desperate noise, and she could feel him break.

She held on as he rode it out, loving the feel of his heat spreading inside her. She buried her face in his shoulder, legs tightening on him, keeping them connected. He held her, and kissed her shoulder. She barely heard him whisper, "I don't want to lose you."

Pressing a little kiss into his skin she said, "I don't want to be lost."

Eventually he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes dark and searching. He didn't say anything, just stood with her in his arms and carried her over to the bed. They curled together under the quilts, him spooning around her back without having to negotiate. She covered his hands with hers where they lay on her stomach.

She could both feel and hear him sigh, a very contented sound. He wasn't someone who relaxed much, but she knew he did with her. There was something to be said for trusting someone that way. It was rare in life. Especially in lives like theirs.

"What do you want to do about the necklace?" he asked quietly.

Oh, that reminded her. "I can wire my clients, see if they're willing to pony up enough to get it back from hock. We have other problems, though."

He shifted a little to look over her shoulder. "Mmmm?"

"I found Merrick and he is Shuiyin."

Steve was very still. "You're sure?"

"Yes." She told him about her conversation with Ora and watching Merrick throw the drunk out of the brothel. "I recognized him. There's no other explanation that fits."

He flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "I really didn't want it to be him."

"I know," she said sympathetically. "He seems to have quite the network, too."

"Everyone speaks very highly of him. But on the other hand. . . theft is still illegal." 

"I don't suppose you could just give him a stern talking to and tell your office he's dead or something."

"Until the next time he steals something notable and gets killed by a bounty hunter?"

She pursed her lips. "I suppose I would feel somewhat bad about that."

Steve tucked his hands behind his head and thought for a bit. "He's an immigrant. Local law enforcement wouldn't be kind to him if they caught him either."

"No one would. He's living on borrowed time. Ora, at least, seemed to realize it, even if he's too cocky. We might be able to talk sense to her. Or she'll just warn him and he'll bolt."

"We catch him in the act, it might scare him a little better. More than a second-hand lecture." 

She trailed her fingers along his arm. "I still think the party is the best opportunity for that."

He looked over at her. "We _did_ get some fancy outfits."

"And I worked hard to get us an invite.”

He rolled back onto his slide, leaning over her so he could kiss her. "So, we go get the necklace, go to the party, and figure it out from there."

"Sounds like a plan. At least for the immediate future."

"I suppose that's all we can worry about right now."

There was no good answer to the rest of it. But they could focus on the now. The job and the party and the warm expanse of the bed. And maybe the future would handle itself. So she tucked herself into his side and nuzzled at his shoulder.


	8. Law and Order

A few days later, the Pinkertons wired Sharon the $600 needed to purchase the necklace, so Steve went to buy it from the deaf jeweler while Sharon went to have her final dress fitting. He seemed relieved to get it out of his shop, but there was something odd about the way he watched Steve.

Having never been to a ball, Steve had no idea if there would be food or not. He stopped by May's on the way home for some dumplings for them to snack on, just in case.

When he got back to the hotel, Sharon was sitting in front of the vanity in a dressing gown he'd never seen before. Several acres of blue taffeta hung from one of the doorways, and a trunk was open at the foot of the bed. Her fancy things had finally arrived from back east. He'd heard tell of silk underthings.

"I brought dumplings and an emerald necklace."

She looked over and smiled. "Well, then you've had a productive day."

He took the necklace out, and set it on the vanity beside her. She looked at it for a moment. "Maybe you should wear it," he said.

"It doesn't match." She looked up at Steve. "Funny thing I realized today. When I heard Merrick speak, his accent was unusual, yet somehow familiar. I realized today during my fitting that it's Madame Maxine's accent. And she sent me to the jeweler that had the necklace."

"That's an interesting coincidence."

"Isn't it? I think our list of associates just got a bit longer." She had make up on, he realized. He didn't think she'd ever seen her in cosmetics before. The cupcake would have been too much of a good girl for it, and rouge and lipstick wasn't practical on the road. San Francisco seemed to have more relaxed standards. Her lips were reddened and her lashes looked thicker and darker. 

She must have noticed him staring, because she smiled a little. "I think this is going to be a very long night for you."

"Did the lingerie make it?" he asked with a grin. She'd told him there was a satin corset, assuming Coulson remembered to pack that—an entertaining image if ever there was one.

"It did. I'd never get into the dress without it." She stood and slipped around the vanity bench. "Are you going to play ladies maid for me? Or do you want it to be a surprise?"

"Putting you into it will make it much more likely I don't damage it getting you out."

"You make and excellent case." She reached into his vest and tugged his watch out to check the time. "Should probably start getting ready. I'd prefer to arrive with the crowd so no one gets a good look at us." He watched her go still as she noticed the tiny sketch of her he'd tucked into the inside of the lid, and he felt his cheeks heat.

She studied it a moment and he wished desperately that he could see her face. Then she closed the lid with a soft click and tucked the watch back in his vest pocket, giving it an affectionate pat before looking up at him. She looked almost sad, but she smiled up at him and swallowed hard. "That's a very good likeness."

"I just. . . I doodle. And seemed like a good. . . place for it," he finished lamely.

"Makes perfect sense to me." Her hand was still on his chest, warm through the fabric of his vest and shirt. "Sometime you should doodle me a little picture of you."

He smiled. "I don't look at myself nearly as much."

"You should. It's a nice view."

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "I will make one for you."

"Thank you." She stepped away, towards the trunk and started to untie her dressing gown. It fell off her shoulders, leaving her naked, and she bent to rummage in the trunk.

He was speechless for a moment, just staring at her, before finally getting out, "Aw, come on now."

"If you can't handle it, you can just go eat your dumplings." She came out of the trunk with an armload of silk and frothy lace, which she heaved onto the bed. A shift went over her head and though it was thin and fine enough to barely hide anything, it did allow some of his higher reasoning to kick back in.

"I _am_ going to eat my dumplings. If I keep watching I'm going to be in pain all night."

She put a foot up on the bed, tying her knife onto her thigh. "I don't want that. Anticipation is such a fine line." He sat and busied himself with his food, ignoring the soft rusting sounds going on behind him.

Near the foot of the bed, there was a complicated cage bustle. He poked it with his foot and found it very sturdy. "If you think we need a rifle we can probably strap it to that thing."

"This is why we get on so well, we think alike." She gave a little grunt. "Are your hands clean? I really could use some help with the corset."

"Yes. Well, no. Hang on." He wiped his hands clean with a handkerchief, and turned towards her.

She had her shift and drawers on, with who knew what weapons beneath them, holding a half laced corset to her chest, just under her breasts. It was black, with fine, intricate embroidery, by far the nicest, most expensive piece of undergarment he'd ever seen. "Turn," he said quietly. When she did, he bent and kissed the nape of her neck before getting to work on the laces.

"Harder," she told him as he tugged on the laces. "I'll tell you when it's enough." He obeyed, still trying to be cautious. She coaxed him a few more times, which put him to mind of far dirtier pursuits. Finally, he had it tight enough for her and finished lacing and tying it off.

When she turned back to him she was all but spilling out of it, waist cinched so tight he thought he might be able to span it with his hands. He couldn't help but try, and his fingers nearly met. It also did mesmerizing things to her breasts. "Let's skip the party," he murmured.

She made a little hum of pleasure. "You make it very tempting."

He inhaled through his nose, and squared his shoulders. "Anticipation will make tonight all the better. How about I put you in your structural support? It'll certainly keep me away from your. . ." he made a gesture with his hand, because all of the words he could think of were particularly vulgar. 

Her grin indicated she'd thought of them all herself. "I think that's probably a good idea."

The bustle was strange, but once he got her all tied and taped and laced and buttoned into the various dress parts, the end result was breathtaking. He really wanted his sketch pad.

She shook her head a little, gold curls bouncing a little. "Oh, the way you're looking at me. Makes me want to undo all our hard work."

He cleared his throat. "I'll go put my dinner suit on."

"I don't know if that'll help any, but yes, do that. We should get going soon."

He kissed her forehead, and went to go dress. When he was done, he fastened on his watch chain, and checked the time again. They still had a little bit yet. "Can you sit in that?" he asked her. She was staring at him. "What?"

"Same reason you stared," she told him with a grin. "I've never seen you spiffed up before."

He looked down, brushing imaginary lint off his jacket. "I think this is the most spiffed I've ever been."

"We should get a picture done. Preserve it for posterity. Why did you want to know if I could sit?"

"I want to draw you."

Her cheeks pinked. He expected teasing, but she just glanced around the room. "I can sit on the bed or the vanity bench. What's your preference?"

He looked at the window and back. "Bench is better light."

She nodded and walked over to the bench, arranging her skirts and bustle so she could perch on it. "Like this?"

"Perfect," he said quietly, pulling out his pad and pencil and getting to work.

She was the perfect model for him, capable of sitting perfectly still as he drew. Sometimes it was like she barely breathed. Bucky could do that, as could Barton, not that Steve spent much time drawing him. He supposed that was a spy thing, something learned sneaking around back alleys hoping not to be seen.

He only needed the rough sketch, his memory would do the rest. He kept an eye on his watch, and put his pencil down when it was time to go. He turned the notebook so she could see it. Only then did she move, leaning closer to inspect it. "I look like something in a museum," she said.

"You look as you are," he told her, reaching up to stroke her gloved arm. "Ready?"

She took a deep breath and nodded, smiling in a way that was ever-so-slightly false. "Let's go, Mr. Rogers."

He offered her his arm, and out the went.

*

Sharon had been to more than her share of East Coast parties and balls, both as a deb and as a spy. She knew the ins and outs like the back of her hand. Knew exactly when to smile, when to dance and when to move with the crowd so as not to be spotted.

San Francisco, though it tried, was not and East Coast town. Like everywhere in the west, there was a certain raw, rough edge to it. Even here on Nob Hill among the upper crust of the city. She spotted more than a few men armed, and even more with mud and dust on their fancy boots. The women wore gowns that would have fit in anywhere in New York, but there was something about them that was just a little. . . too much. Like girls playing dress up to prove they were adults. Maybe that was what it was. San Francisco wanted to be a proper city, but at its heart it was a frontier boom town on the edge of the world. And liked it that way.

It was good. Steve would have stuck out in the East Coast like a sore, non-blue-blooded thumb. He looked amazing in his crisp dark dinner suit, but like the city around them there was that rough edge you couldn't hide with all the pretty in the world. She found is sexy as hell, but it probably would have gotten them thrown out of the Starks or the Stanes or the Fisks back home.

Here, he fit in perfectly, like a man who'd earned his own fortune and gotten plenty dirty and bloody doing it. "So," he said as he got them two glasses of champagne. "Am I expected to dance. Because I kind of. . . can't."

"Dancing is the best way to get a look at the crowd," she told him, sipping her drink. "I can help you, it's not hard."

"I won't look like an idiot?"

"No. We'll do a waltz, that's pretty simple and I can guide you." She nudged his arm. "I got your back, partner."

He met her eyes, and said, "I trust you," with more behind it than just a dance.

Swallowing around the sudden lump in her throat, she nodded and leaned on him a little as she sipped her champagne. "I don't see Merrick yet."

"If I were him, I'd be a servant. People of this class don't pay attention to their help, would be a very easy place to slip in unnoticed."

"Especially at a party like this. Lots of temporary help. Waiters running food and drink in."

He nodded, just watching the room. He was taller than most of the people there, so he had a much better view than her. "Lots of jewelry. Though he may be more likely to target the hosts."

"If I were him I'd try to hit multiple people. Women lose bracelets and rings at balls all the time. Clasps break, things slip off gloves." She gestured to the crowd. "He could do a circuit, fill his pocket, go back to below stairs to unload, then do another turn."

"Accomplice?"

She shrugged. "We know he has a lot of people in his web. Surely one or two of them are good enough to come on a job with him."

"I'd like to avoid having a shootout, if at all possible."

 "We'll call that plan A." She squinted, spotting a faintly familiar mop of dark hair. "How's your disapproving dad voice?"

Steve turned. "He's here?"

She gestured with her fan. "Waiter collecting empty glasses. I'm guessing he's palming rings and cufflinks as he does."

He stared. "I saw him the other day, only with much more of a beard. I can't believe I didn't recognize him. Though it was dim in there and I only saw him from the side. That strange hand-conversation that they were having was distracting. That's the jeweler's brother in law. The one that supposedly bought the necklace."

"Well, that confirms he's involved." She sucked her teeth, thinking. "All right. Maxine and Merrick have the same distinct accent. She sent me to the jeweler who had the necklace he stole and called Merrick his brother-in-law. And Ora the brothel owner is his point of contact and close enough to worry about him." She looked up at Steve. "Quite the complicated little family."

He watched Merrick deftly remove a bracelet from a drunk matron. "May seemed to think she was his woman. Maxine is a relative. Maybe his sister? They could be being honest about the small details—makes for believable lies. The jeweler is probably Maxine's husband. Did she have a ring?"

Sharon closed her eyes and pictured the woman. "She wears a lot of jewelry. I think there was one on her wedding finger, yes."

"It's actually brilliant. There's no fence. Taschengregger takes what he steals apart, repurposes the metal and stones and sells the new piece. Maxine sends her rich clients his way. Some of these people have probably re-bought their own stolen jewelry." He sighed. "None of them look or live wealthy. He must be handing out most if not all of the proceeds."

"He might give away all of it. I'm sure Maxine, Ora, and Taschengregger make enough legitimate money to support them." She shook her head. "I'm impressed. Let's compliment him when we're yelling at him."

"Looks like I'm dodging that dance," he said, taking both their empty glasses and starting across the ballroom. She lifted her skirt a bit so she could hustle after him, weaving through the crowd.

Merrick spotted them when they were still a few feet away and his eyes widened. She didn't know if he recognized one of them us could just read Steve's intent in his walk, but he immediately turned and started for the servants' door.

Steve took advantage of the fact that he was trying not to call attention to himself, and caught him before he reached the door. He gripped the man's arm firmly, and put his glasses on the tray. "I'm a US Marshal. Don't make a scene, I don't want to have to shoot you."

"Have I done something wrong, Marshal?" Merrick asked in the most innocent tone possible.

"You really want this ballroom to be where I empty your pockets?"

He glanced over at Sharon, as if she might be of some use. After she just smiled and wiggled her fingers in a wave he sighed and dropped the act. "Where would you prefer to do it?"

"I expect you could locate an empty room somewhere in this house."

"Yes, sir." He deposited his tray on an end table and guided them through the halls. Once away from the crowd Sharon and Steve flanked him so he couldn't get away in the twists and turns. Eventually they reached an storage room of some sort, full of rolled up rugs and a ton of chairs.

Steve turned one over for Sharon, then pushed another towards Merrick. "All the jewelry on the chair."

The expression on his face was damn close to a pout, but he obediently started emptying his pockets. Sharon perched on the chair and fiddled with her fan, watching the pile grow. Seriously, if she ever started a criminal empire she was hiring this kid.

Steve folded his arms over his chest and shook his head as he watched. "So what is your real name, anyway? I'm guessing it isn't Merrick—or Mercurio or Shuiyin or any of your other nicknames."

"Maximoff," he said. "Pietro. At your service." He glanced from one to the other. "You're the ones who've been asking after me, yes?"

"Yes. I'm Marshal Rogers, this is Miss Carter with the Pinkertons. That emerald necklace might have been out of your league."

He sighed, shoulders slumping. "Yes. That's what Wanda said. But I couldn't resist. It matched her eyes and I had no other birthday gift. What was a brother to do?"

"Oh, Steve, he's adorable," Sharon said. "Can we keep him?"

"Then why did you sell it?"

"Too hot, as you said. We heard people were asking around, chasing me for it. Wanda though it would be better to be rid of it. She and Zev are the brains of the operation and usually right about this sort of thing."

"Zev is the deaf jeweler?" Steve asked, and Maximoff nodded. "It would have been more discrete to take it apart than sell it intact."

He sighed. "He said the emeralds would shatter if we took them out. Apparently they're fragile. I promised not to steal emeralds again."

"You shouldn't be stealing anything," Steve replied.

"Children shouldn't starve in the streets," Maximoff countered. "Women shouldn't lose their jobs for being raped. Men shouldn't have to kill themselves to feed their family. They said in America it was better than the old country. The streets are paved with gold, yes? It's just misery in a different language." He waved a hand at the pile of jewelry on the chair. "They won't miss these. They'll replace them in a week. But the people it would help. . . that will last a lifetime."

Sharon watched Steve put his hands on his hips and look down. "I don't disagree on any particular point."

"But yet you're going to arrest me. Never mind the people who depend on me. Never mind my family. The stones are more important."

Steve didn't respond immediately, so Sharon piped up. "Not necessarily."

He looked at her suspiciously. "What does that mean?"

"It means Marshal Rogers here is more interested in justice than law. And I am more interested in the necklace than you. It's possible that we could just let you go and call it good. But I'm guessing no one else that catches you will be so generous. And someone else _will_ catch you, you know that, right?"

"My sister tells me I'm going to get shot," he replied, just a touch of defiance in his voice.

"Have you ever been shot, kid?" Steve asked. "I'm going to hazard a guess you're too young to have fought in the war. I've seen enough men die of bullet wounds to last two lifetimes. It's not pretty."

"No one will be taking care of your family or all your widows and orphans, then," Sharon told him.

He crossed his arms, looking heartbreakingly young for a moment. "You're just going to lecture me then? Smack on the back of that hand, keep out of the cookie jar?"

"I could," Steve said. "The next step after sending me after you is to put a bounty on your head. The men that come for you then won't introduce themselves."

"I know Pinkertons who would have shot you just for dragging them all the way across the country," Sharon offered.

"So what if I promise not to steal anymore? You're just going to take my word on it?"

Sharon grinned and fluttered her fan. "I'm also going to go have a chat with your sister." As she suspected, that made him pale. "I'm guessing she'll put the fear of God in you. If for no other reason than she and her husband would be in just as much trouble as you if the authorities got involved."

"You're not going to want to hear it," Steve added. "But getting out of San Francisco might be a good idea."

He sighed and looked sad and Sharon didn't think it was an act. "And we had just gotten settled. Everyone's happy here."

"It's quite the city," Steve said. "I'll give you that." He flipped around a chair for Maximoff, and then one for himself. "You have a profession, other than crime?"

This required a moment's thought. "I'm a decent cook. And I throw drunks out for Ora."

"I know someplace you could go. You and your family. Not likely anyone would come looking for you. It's a cattle town, but they're running the rail line out so I expect quite a boom very soon." He smiled wryly. "We had one Robber Baron, but we shot him in the head." 

Sharon had to concentrate on not smiling too widely. Not enough misfits in Steve's odd little town. Now he was actively recruiting them.

Maximoff looked skeptical. "You're inviting me to your town? A known con man?"

"I think he's inviting you somewhere he can keep an eye on you," Sharon offered.

"It's a weird town. But the people are nice. Big believers in second chances. Our cabinetmaker was once a professional gunfighter." He gestured at Sharon. "And also, that. My deputy was the best Sharpshooter in the Union army. Criminals don't run far."

Maximoff looked from one to the other, then nodded a little. "I will speak with the others."

"We'll still be in town a bit. We're at the Prescott Hotel."

"One of us will find you."

Steve nodded, then turned and looked at Sharon as if to ask if she had anything else. She shrugged and shook her head. That seemed to pretty much cover it. "All right. Leave the jewels here, someone will find them eventually."

The kid gave the pile one last, long look before getting up and darting out the door. She and Steve got up slower. "Think he'll take you up on it?" she asked him.

He scrubbed his face. "I hope so."

She tucked her arm through his. "You did your best and no one got hurt. I think you can call it a win for tonight."

"Still not sure how I'll explain this to my boss."

"I'm sure we'll think of something." They made their way out to the front of the house. "You could blame it on some troublesome Pinkerton agent that kept getting in your way."

They waited while their rented carriage was brought around. "I suppose it won't matter. I think I'm going to deliver my resignation with the bad news."

She tried to hide her surprise, looking up at him. "Going to be a full time sherif now?"

He sighed. "I think I just. . . want to go home. Maybe I'll be miserable, but right now I miss them."

"For what it's worth, I don't think you'll be miserable." He looked down at her and she gave his arm a little shake. "You found a home, Steve. Weird and crazy and half cocked, but it's home. And that town full of second chances if your family."

The carriage pulled up, and he helped her in. He didn't speak until he sank into the seat across from her. "I know. But I sometimes feel like the black sheep."

"Because you're conspicuously lacking in baby?

"The lack of a wife and children certainly doesn't help."

"You want me to send you some mail order from New York?" she asked, teasing to hide her own sorrow. "There's a plethora of cupcakes."

He leaned back against the seat, and tipped his face toward the ceiling. "You've ruined me for cupcakes."

She didn't entirely know what to say to that. "I'm sorry."

He looked back at her. "Don't be," he said quietly. "It's been worth it."

"It has been a very good time," she agreed, just as quiet. "The best."


	9. The Ranger and the Lady

At the hotel, Steve climbed out first, and helped her and her fancy dress down. For a moment he was honestly sad they hadn't gotten to dance, even if he did have no idea how to actually waltz.

He kept a hand on the small of her back as they walked to their room. He could feel the corset underneath the fabric, creaking and shifting as she moved. "That is the shortest time I ever spent at a ball," she commented as he unlocked the door. "My hair hasn't even drooped."

"Did you want to stay longer?" He opened the door and stepped back so she and her dress could get in.

"No. I've been to plenty of them." She turned to face him as he closed the door and very slowly started peeling her gloves off. "I'd rather spend my time with you."

That sounded perfect. And he wouldn't have to think, at least not about tomorrow and after that. Tonight they could just be whatever the hell they were. He reached for her, sliding his hands around her impossibly tiny waist. "You look so beautiful."

She ran her hands up his arms. "And you look devilishly handsome." She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, and he tossed it over the chair. He took his pocket watch off as she went to work on the buttons of his vest. Her dress was going to take some doing.

"I wish I didn't have all the hardware under this," she lamented, now carefully slipping the buttons of his shirt free. "I entertained myself with fantasies of you bending be over the vanity bench the whole ride to the ball."

Now he was picturing it, too. "Get the dress and the bustle off, and I can work with the rest," he told her with a grin.

Her skin flushed pink and she stepped away from him, leaving his shirt hanging open so she could get started on all the buttons and ties on her complicated dress. It _had_ been useful helping her into it, so he could now get her out of it relatively easily. It did seem to have a lot of pieces. He got her down to just the cage bustle, and found himself laughing at how ridiculous the damn thing was, making her laugh as well.

"Try wearing it," she said as they managed to get that untied. He spanned her waist with his hands and she braced hers on his shoulder so he could lift her out of the contraption. He pulled off the last petticoat, leaving her in her shift, corset, drawers and stockings. The ribbons on her garters matched the ones on her corset.

He leaned down to kiss her. "Now this is an outfit I approve of."

She cupped his face, which made her cleavage do amazing things. "I'm surprised you didn't want to draw me like this."

"I do," he whispered. "And then I want to draw you after, soft and warm and rumpled. And then maybe during. Flushed and gasping with your head thrown back."

Her breathing changed as he spoke and she pressed closer, kissing him. For a few moments, it was just their bodies talking, urgent and needy. When they broke for air, she whispered, "You make me want forget everything else. Just be your muse. Eager and wet whenever you wanted me."

He cupped her ass, pulling her tight up against him. "Would you let me draw you naked?"

"Of course."

Smiling, he nibbled her ear. "After I bend you over the vanity?"

Her fingernails dug into his back, eight little pricks. "Anything you like."

The small bit of pain was oddly arousing. She'd promised to claw his back once. He lifted her off her feet, carrying her back towards the vanity. Then kissed, messy and explicit, and he bumped into the wood. He swept a hand over the surface and sent whatever was on it to the floor. Then he set her down on top of the vanity. He parted her legs, and then the open seam of her drawers. "This is convenient," he murmured.

"You have no idea." She was wet, as he'd expected, the folds of her sex soft and swollen with anticipation. He stroked her and she moaned, a shudder going through her.

He kissed the tops of her breasts above the corset, and his fingers found her clit. It earned him a gasp, and he repeated the touch. He could spend an eternity doing this to her. She opened her legs wider and he stroked her, slow and light and idle, watching her face. She held his gaze, even as her mouth opened and her eyes glazed with pleasure. Her chest heaved so hard she was in danger of popping out of her corset. "This is how I'd draw you," he whispered. "Just like this."

She caught her lower lip in her teeth and her lids fluttered. "More," she moaned. "I need more."

He bent to kiss her. "You want to turn around?"

She nipped at his lip now. "God yes. I want to watch you fuck me." He leaned back, pulling her off the vanity and onto her feet. She swiveled slowly, a little wobbly, and then bent over. He met her eyes in the mirror, and blindly reached to unfasten his pants.

When he was free he pressed closer to her, spreading the gap in her drawers. He heard fabric rip, but didn't care as the heat of her body kissed the tip of his cock. Thrusting forward, he slipped inside, her body closing around him, wet and hot. She put one hand on the mirror and pushed back against him, and he closed his eyes for a moment, just lost in it. He reached out and flattened his hand over hers.

They watched each other in the mirror as he thrust into her. He didn't have it in him to be patient or gentle. It was rough and desperate, much like their first time together. She didn't seem to mind, giving as good as she got. When she managed to gasp out words between her moans and whimpers it was to beg him for more. To prod him harder, faster, deeper.

He gripped her hips and lifted her a little for a better angle, then slid one hand beneath, to touch her again. The sounds she made hit a different pitch. She was poised up on her toes, weight thrown forward against the vanity.

"Steve," she gasped. He felt her body squeezing around him. "Don't stop. Don't stop. Oh, fuck, make me-" She cut off with a wail and threw her head back. Then she was shaking, hard enough to rattle the vanity. He could feel the waves of her climax shuddering through her, clenching her around him. It felt so damn good. He rode it out as long as he could, until she reached back in her haze to hold him to her, digging her nails into his thigh. That little bit was all it took.

He surged forward with the force of his release, making the vanity rock dangerously. Sharon released it to reach back and wrap and arm around his neck. Somehow he ended up on his knees with her in his lap, buried as deep inside her as possible. She was throbbing around him both of them panting. He cupped a hand over her sex and she whimpered, grinding against his palm. He obliged her with a few rough, uncoordinated strokes to her clit and the throbs turned into another round of spasms as she squirmed in his arms.

He kissed her shoulder, and nuzzled her neck. God, he was going to miss her so much.

*

Sharon spent the better part of the next two days in various stages of undress, experiencing almost mythical levels of pleasure. When Steve wasn't eating, sleeping, or giving her one of countless orgasms, he was drawing her. In every stage of pleasure, just as he'd promised. She dug out lingerie and underthings from her trunk and let him dress and pose her. Half the time he barely got a rough sketch done before he had his hands and mouth on her. It was intoxicating, dizzying and ultimately bittersweet. Because she knew it was temporary.

This was his way of saying goodbye.

Late Monday afternoon, Steve went out to get them more Chinese food, and there was a knock on the door. Madame Maxine was on the other side.

Sharon was glad she was at least mostly dressed, even if the room was a wreck. She made a half hearted attempted to gather up the various pieces of clothing as she offered the other woman a seat.

"Don't be embarrassed," the younger woman said halfway through Sharon's apology. "I have been married a few years but I remember the early days."

"It's not entirely-" She sighed and decided not to get into it. "I take it your little group has made a decision?"

"Indeed." She paused. "My real name is Wanda, by the way. Wanda Taschengregger. Pietro is my brother. He and I had a serious discussion, and we'd like to take you up on your offer. My husband asks if we may retain the money you paid for the necklace. It's already been distributed, and coming up with replacement money would be very difficult."

"That's fine. The necklace's original owner considered it a small price to pay for its retrieval."

She folded her hands and regarded Sharon a moment. "You are aware we are Jews, yes?"

"I am." The names had been a bit of a tip off, plus with the location of the jewelry store it hadn't been hard to put together. "No one in Triskelion will care."

"It's Kansas. Seemed prudent to check."

"Honestly, you'll be more welcome than the two Southerners that live there."

That made her smile. "Well all right, then."

The door swung open and Steve stepped in. He looked from Wanda to Sharon, and a shadow crossed his face, draining the smile he'd had. "Hello."

She stood, immediately nervous again. "Marshal."

"Wanda came to tell us she and the others will take you up on your offer," Sharon said quietly.

He nodded. "Good. That's good." He cleared his throat and put the box with the food in it down. "I will make the arrangements. I'll need to book train tickets. The three of you?"

She adjusted the deep red shawl draped around her shoulders. "We will have eight." Steve's eyebrows went up, so she added. "I have four children, plus my husband's mother."

Sharon really couldn't imagine someone that young having four children already.

Steve's face was pretty much showing the same thought. Wanda straightened her shoulders and said, "Twins run in our family."

Laughing at the look of horror now on Steve's face, Sharon said, "Oh, Banner and Amanda are going to _love_ you."

"Thats our Doctor and Nurse," Steve supplied. "They deliver the babies." 

Wanda offered a little smile. "The benefit to having it run in the family is that I seem to be built for it." The smile softened a little and Sharon had a flash of intuition, wondering if babies five and possibly six might have been some of the motivation for the decision to leave.

"You can send word to my shop or Zev's jeweler whenever you have arrangements made," Wanda added.

"I assume you need some time to close things up?"

She nodded. "Just a few days. We had. . . contingencies, in case we had to run at a moment's notice."

"I'll be in touch then," Steve said. "Start packing."

"Of course. Thank you." She gave a little nod to Sharon and let herself out.

There was a moment of silence, then Sharon moved to start unpacking the food he'd brought. "You don't seem happy about your clever plan working.'

"A week and a half on trains with four very small children doesn't entirely sound fun."

"I think that sounds like a special kind of hell," she agreed, unearthing the dumplings. Honestly, why did he get anything else?

He sat in the chair and watched her. "So. . . what are you going to do?"

She bought herself a couple moments chewing her dumpling. "I need to get the necklace back to New York."

He nodded, like he was expecting that. "And then get back to work?"

That was a harder question. "I suppose so. I'm sure they'll have something for me to do." Her next job wasn't going to have him, though.

She could see him swallow, and he looked down at his food for a moment. "I, uh, I can book your ticket through to New York. The group and I will get off in Omaha to take the train south, and you can stay on to go east."

"That's probably best. Though I can't promise I'll be much use wrangling the kids."

"I'm hoping they have their own children in hand." He ate a few more dumplings before saying, "I'm going to miss this food."

"Maybe you can talk May in to coming to Kansas and starting up a restaurant."

That got a chuckle out of him. "Maybe."

They ate in silence a moment. "I hate this," she said quietly. "I wish it was different. But I don't want to spend our last few days together being sad and angry and quiet. I want to enjoy every minute I get with you."

"I am sad and angry," he said, the raw honesty surprising her. "I don't think being loud about it will add anything good to the situation."

She looked away, glancing around the trashed room blindly. "Do you want me to go now? Maybe dragging it out isn't doing us any favors."

He was already shaking his head. "No, no. I want what time we have left. But if _you_ want to go—"

"I don't want to go," she said quietly. Not at all, if she was being honest. But she couldn't quite bring herself to decide not to. Like it or not, her life was in New York. Even if he wasn't. 

He reached out for her hand. "Good."

Turning her hand over, she wove her fingers into his, rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. After a moment he let go, and reached into his vest pocket. "I have something for you."

Her brows lifted. "You do?"

He pulled out a small slip of paper, and held it out. On it was a very tiny portrait of the two of them. She reached out and took it, horrified at the tears that burned the back of her eyes. It was a proper little portrait, too. The kind her parents had had done when she was very little.

"Thank you," she whispered, voice hoarse.

"You asked for one. And I thought this way you could take something of me with you."

She nodded. "I love it. It's perfect."

He stood up, and pulled her to her feet, so he could tuck her into a hug. "I want to enjoy these last few days, too."

Pressing her face into his shoulder, she nodded. Then she let the tears well up, just this once.

*

It took a week to arrange the departure. Steve wired back to Triskelion for money he had in the bank to help cover the cost of getting 10 people across the country. Maximoff had come by with gold Steve decided not to inquire as to the source of, but it wasn't enough and Steve was really hoping to fund first class so they had sleeping bunks.

Loki got the telegram, all right, but instead of receiving funds through Western Union, Steve got a telegram back:

_Sending Pullman STOP 6 days STOP Be careful with carpet STOP You know who I am FULL STOP_

"Goddamned show-off," he muttered as he and Sharon made their way to the shiny, fancy, way-too-nice-for-him car.

"What is the point of having rich friends if you don't embrace it?" Sharon asked him. 

"Choo choo! Choo choo!" shrieked the little boy he was carrying. The toddler had made a break for it as the disembarked the ferry and Steve scooped him up. Maximoff and Taschengregger were dealing with the mountain of baggage, and the other two women had their hands full with three other children.

"Yes," Steve told him. "We are getting on that choo choo." 

"Choo choo!" The boy shreiked again. Sharon was giving Steve a look he couldn't read but made him feel a bit flushed. 

"Alexi be nice to the Marshal," Wanda called distractedly.

The boy - Alexi, apparently - turned and pressed chubby hands to Steve's cheeks. "Nice Marshal." Steve took his hat off and put it on Alexi's head, and he squealed with joy.

They'd fit in just fine in Triskelion.

A man in a dark suit stepped off the back of the private car attached to the caboose of the train. "Marshal Rogers? I'm Hogan, Mr. Stark's porter."

He held out his hand. "Steve Rogers, nice to meet you."

They shook and Hogan glanced at their motley crew. "Is this everyone?"

"It is, and those are our bags." He pointed to the cart Maximoff was pulling. An entire family's possessions, save furniture that would be too large and heavy to ship, and Sharon's fancy-clothes trunk, which hadn't really been needed. Their bedrolls and saddlebags were in there somewhere, too. 

Hogan snapped his fingers and some men appeared, dashing over to take the cart. "We have a private baggage section, Mr. Stark likes having his possessions available to him."

"See, rich friends are handy," Sharon said.

Hogan smiled. "Mr. Stark likes to travel in style. Shall I show you your rooms?" It took them a few moments to get everyone up and into the car. They were in an elegantly appointed parlor that thankfully had plenty of seats. "We have the master bedroom, which sleeps two in a traditional bed. We then have two rooms with four berths apiece. Additional berths could be pulled down from the ceiling here and here if needs be."

Wanda and Zev glanced at each other and had rapid conversation of hand gestures. Pietro and Mrs. Taschengregger joined in and a moment later Wanda turned back to him and Sharon. "You two should take the master. We will figure out our own room arrangements."

Steve felt stupidly grateful. They hadn't wanted to count on privacy on the train, so they'd treated last night like the last time. So this, now, was a gift. He had to clear his throat before saying, "Thank you."

She smiled brilliantly. "It is the least we can do."

"You can all get settled," Hogan said. "We'll serve a light meal once we get underway."

Wanda and her mother-in-law started herding the kids towards the rooms. Pietro was standing to one side, staring out the train windows. Zev paused to pat him on the shoulder before following the rest of the family.

Steve went over to him. "For what it's worth, I think you made the right choice."

He nodded. "I know. Wanda thinks so to. I just. . . Ora wanted to stay."

That was a particular misery Steve empathized with. "Ah. From what Sharon told me I expect she has people she feels responsible for."

"Her girls," he agreed. "Who am I to compete with all of them?" He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Maybe someday."

This was painfully familiar. He didn't know this man at all, and yet found himself saying, "She's going back to New York."

Pietro glanced at him, then over to where Sharon was discussing something with Hogan. "Your woman?"

He nodded. "She's got her work and things she wants and it's not in Kansas."

"Huh." He paused. "So you understand."

"Misery loves company, eh?"

"I suppose so." Pietro glanced around. "Fancy train like this. I bet they'll have good liquor to drown our sorrows in."

He didn't want to be too drunk—he still had two days of Sharon left. But a little wouldn't hurt. "There's plenty in town, too."

"All aboard!" a conductor called from somewhere up the platform, and then the train lurched forward.

Pietro turned to look out the windows again. Steve made to step away from him when the other man suddenly jerked and grabbed at his arm. "Wait."

Steve looked in the same direction, and there was a dark-haired woman chasing the train. "Is that—?"

"It is." Pietro slammed him on the arm, grinning, then ran for the end of the car. "Wait. Wait!"

Steve chased after him. "They can't stop the train." Pietro yanked the back door open and Steve followed him. He got outside in time to see the other man leap from the train. He landed on the platform, swung Ora into his arms, and then ran after the train—he could run _much_ faster than her. He got even with the train, handed her up to Steve, and then caught the step rail to swing himself up just as the train cleared the far end of the platform.

For a moment, the three of them just stood there. Pietro panting and Steve and Ora looking stunned at what just occurred. When he caught his breath, Pietro straightened, reached for Ora and wrap his arms around her, crushing her to him.

They were mumbling to each other in a language Steve didn't understand, but he suddenly felt the a voyeur. He ducked back into the car, surprised by the sudden wave of grief he felt. The first thing he saw was Sharon, standing at the other end. Her expression mirrored his and he wondered how much she'd seen through the windows.

With a sad smile, she raised a hand and patted a spot on her chest where he knew a gold locket lay. He'd watched her tuck the portrait of the two of them in it this morning and helped fasten it on her neck.

He reached for the waistcoat pocket where his watch was tucked, acknowledgement and echoing back. He expected he'd pull out his watch for reasons other than timekeeping often in the coming weeks and months. He wondered if she'd do the same with her locket.

Behind him, Pietro and Ora came back in to the car. She sounded to be in the middle of yelling at him. "I told you I had to take care of my girls. That didn't mean I wasn't coming and you could just leave!"

"What else was I supposed to think?" he replied, gesturing wildly. "You take care of them, you have to be here, don't you?"

"Some wanted to stay in San Francisco, others were interested in starting over. Took some arranging. They're up in second class." She pointed in the general direction of the rest of the train. "I walked the whole train twice looking for you, thinking maybe I'd gotten the days wrong, and then the conductor told me about the private car—which I'm going to need you to explain—and I hopped off to come around back and the damn train took off."

"If you had said 'Sure, but I want to see if any of the girls want to come too' that would have been clearer."

She put her hands on her hips. "You stomped out before I could articulate that."

He crossed his arms. "I don't stomp."

Sharon appeared at Steve's side. "This might complicate their room negotiations."

"Not my problem," Steve muttered. He leaned closer to her. "This is very. . . Mr. and Mrs. Stark."

"I can see that." She rested on his arm. "He and Stark will get on like gangbusters."

Apparently the other two had sorted themselves out, because they were kissing. Steve sighed and turned away. "Want to go check out our room?" he asked her.

With another glance at the other couple she nodded. "And hide in there the whole trip."

At the other end of the car, the younger set of twins began crying in unison. "Agreed."


	10. The Great Man's Lady

It was a remarkably nice room, especially considering it was on a train. He had not been looking forward to negotiating even a first class bunk. That bed looked not only big enough for two but long enough his feet wouldn't hang off the end.

Sharon took her hat off and hung it on the hook near where their saddle bags and her trunk had magically appeared. "The cupcake in me approves."

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She was back to pants and a shirtwaist for the journey home. "We'll make use of it."

She leaned into him, a warm, soft weight. "We'll have to be very quiet."

"That will be harder for you than for me," he told her, bending to kiss her neck.

With a little hum of pleasure, she murmured, "One could argue that's still your fault."

He rocked her, just enjoying the feel of her against him while it lasted. "That's probably true."

For a few moments they just stood and swayed together. Then Sharon turned in his arms to face him. She curled one of his hands around her waist and held the other. She settled her free hand on his shoulder and nudged him to sway again. "There, I'm going to get at least one dance out of you."

He swayed with her, mostly with the motion of the train. "These outfits suit us better anyway."

She nodded and rested her head on his shoulder. This was the real Sharon and Steve, the ones only the other knew. Despite his sketch book full of her in corsets and dresses he was sure this was the Sharon he would think of during lonely nights in the future.

Steve sighed. "If you ever get tired of New York. . ."

Her fingers tightened on his. "I know exactly where to go."

That was best he could hope for, right now.

*

They rolled into Sacramento mid-afternoon, with a 20-minute stop. Sharon found herself thinking about when they'd left Sacramento, both of them running for the train because they'd stayed in bed too long. They stopped that evening a couple thousand feet up in the Sierra for dinner in a tiny town whose entire purpose seemed to be feeding the daily trains, given the proportion of restaurants to homes. Hogan had food brought to the car so they could eat leisurely once underway again, rather than having to cram it in during the 30 minutes the train stopped.

The climbed and climbed, the tracks seeming impossibly tacked onto the side of sheer rock faces. Valleys below started green and turned white as they got higher, until they were swallowed by darkness.

Wanda and her mother-in-law took one of the rooms, and all the children. Ora and Pietro took the other, and Zev slept in one of the pull down bunks in the parlor. They disassembled one of the built-in cabinets over Hogan's protests to fashion bed-rails to keep the children in their bunks on a rocking train. 

When everyone else was settled, Sharon and Steve closed themselves up in their master bedroom. Last night - what she'd assumed would be their last night together - had been intimate and intense and full of emotions neither of them were able to express. Tonight there was a similar intensity in the air, combined with a certain amount of taboo that came with sex behind thin walls.

The door had a lock on it, and he latched it. He turned to her, held his finger over his lips, and began to strip. For a moment she just enjoyed watching him, all that smooth tan skin being revealed. She was going to miss his company and his conversation but God, was she going to miss those muscles.

He glanced at her and hiked up a pointed brow and she stuck her tongue out at him before started to shed her own clothes. It was chilly in the room, and they climbed under the covers once they were naked. A tiny lamp turned low was the only light.

Steve pulled her close to him and she tilted her head back to kiss him. She ran her hands over his skin, tracing lines along his shoulders and spine. He returned the gentle touch, hands skimming over her body. They didn't dare speak.

When she had throughly memorized his top half, so that she felt her could accurately picture it in the future, she let her hands wander down lower, framing his waist and hips. She cupped his ass and tugged him forward, so his hardening erection grazed her stomach.

He hitched one of her legs up over his hip, opening her so he could touch her freely. It was slow and lazy and torturous. She wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked with the exact same speed he did her. She wanted to whisper to him, all the things she wanted to do to him and all the things she wished he'd do to her. But they couldn't talk for fear of being heard. So she kissed him instead, rough and deep, pouring her need into him.

It grew hot under the blankets and she grew slick and swollen, coating his fingers. She was close and normally she'd tell him so. Now she just nipped at his lower lip and leaned back so he could see it on her face. He held her eyes and breathed, "Shhh," as he sank his fingers inside her.

Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Nails digging into his shoulders she rocked on his fingers, driving them deep. Then she was coming, tightening on the intrusion. It was hot and intense and shook her to the core. He grinned, proud of her or himself or maybe both. He withdrew his hand, and watched her face as she calmed.

Slumping forward, she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and allowed herself a quiet little whimper.

He kissed her temple and whispered, "That's my girl."

She lifted her head and kissed him, hitching her leg higher so he was lined up properly. "Please," she breathed. He pulled her closer and thrust inside her. She swallowed a gasp, but it was all right—he made and not entirely quiet groan. Sharon grinned at him and squeezed his thigh and he took her mouth again, starting to move slowly.

 The thrust of his cock blended with the rock of the train. She made a soft noise in his mouth and closed her eyes, relaxing into it, letting the pleasure build. It was slow, this time, more friction than speed. But it felt achingly good, and the only sounds were their heavy breathing and the clack of the train wheels.

Her climax came slowly, then all at once. Hot, aching waves started to shake her and she leaned in, sinking her teeth into his shoulder to smother any sound she might make. He held her tight, so there wasn't a single inch of them not pressed together, and she could feel him the tension in every muscle. Then his body shuddered, and she felt him flood her.

They stayed locked together as he rode it out, then as they both calmed. The rock of the train was soothing and the two climaxes had worn her out. Sharon thought that this particular moment was just about perfect.

They slept like that, their limbs tangled around each other, neither wanting to let go. They woke in the morning rolling through the vast expanses of the Nevada desert, and stopped at three different little railroad towns for meals. They took turns taking the toddlers to run and burn some energy.

That night she and Steve went to bed as early as was even slightly polite, blaming the early morning they had coming up. They weren't fooling anyone, but she didn't care. They were still awake when the train rolled into Ogden, Utah a little before dawn.

This was where the Central Pacific ended and the Union Pacific ended, requiring a change of trains. It meant their car had to be uncoupled, moved, and recoupled to the new train which was no small undertaking. They only had four hours to do it in, and everyone had to be out of the car.

Sharon was tired and grumpy when she disembarked with the rest of them. They were getting ever closer to the moment she'd have to say goodbye to Steve and head on to New York alone. She wasn't looking forward to it, the miles seemed to be going by far too quickly. 

Corralling the Taschengregger children took up the morning while they waited. Steve had vanished, which irritated her, and worried her just a tinge. He was an adult, she told herself, and he'd be back.

They had the car recoupled and were hunting for Alexi so they could get back on when Steve arrived. She wanted to be annoyed, but was too busy looking for the toddler to be anything but relieved. Which, to be honest, annoyed her a little.

She needed to shake this mood if she was going to have any fun tonight.

"Got him!" she heard Steve yell, and when she turned she saw him with the little boy sitting on one arm, wearing Steve's cowboy hat.

And then he did stuff like that and it stirred things in her she'd thought long dead. Things involving husbands and babies and the life she once thought she'd have.

Wanda rushed forward to take her son, and Sharon didn't miss the look of longing on Steve's face. Wanda tried to take the hat off Alexi and he shrieked. "Keep it," Steve said.

"Are you sure?" At his nod, Wanda thanked him and prodded Alexi to do the same.

"Now boarding," Hogan called from the train.

He gave Sharon a sad smile and reached a hand out for her. It was only when she got close to him the familiar mouth-watering scent hit her, and she looked down at the bag in his other hand. "Ogden has a Chinatown," he said.

It was insane, but for a heart-stopping moment she almost told him she loved him. She swallowed it down and grinned. "You're an angel."

He just grinned and kissed her, and they walked to the train.

*

There were three nights between Ogden and Omaha, where Sharon would go east and the rest of them would go south. During the day, Steve made unsteady sketches of the landscape, which went from majestic through the rockies to exceedingly boring across the plains. They played cards, they sat around and talked. At night, he and Sharon wore themselves out.

There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to hear from her. But every time he thought to say any of it, he chickened out. It was what it was, much as he might hate it. Her life was in New York and he couldn't ask her to throw it away.

They pulled into Omaha midmorning. Sharon had packed her saddle bags and trunk and the porters came to take them off the train. She'd have a bit of a wait before the eastern train boarded. 

She said goodbye to Wanda and the kids. She seemed to have gotten close to the other woman, in the last few days. Then she turned to him and he could see tears shimmering in her dark brown eyes.

"I'll wait with you," he said. "They have to transfer to the car to our train to Kansas. The spur to Triskelion was finished while I was on the hunt, so we're going straight through." He didn't want to be around the others. This would be hard enough without an audience. 

She nodded and gave Wanda one more hug before climbing off the train car. They strolled across the station, towards the track her east-bound leg would come through on. "Do you think writing would help?" she asked finally.

"Help it hurt less?" he asked. Because really, there was no space for anything but honesty.

"Yeah. I can give you my address in New York. I'm not there all the time, but. . ." She sighed and shrugged. "We could keep up with each other's lives."

That was more likely to make it worse than better. Make it impossible to put behind him. But he craved the connection. The idea that he wouldn't lose her entirely, at least not right now. "I'd like that."

They stopped so she could write it out for him and he tucked it away. "I feel bad," she said. "I don't have anything for you. You gave me that drawing and I don't have anything for you."

He caught her hand. "You gave me plenty."

She wove her fingers with his and they stood very close to each other as the crowd moved around them. "I hate this," she said softly.

"It was the most fun I've ever had in my life."

That made her smile. "Me too."

He pulled her closer. Who cared what people looking thought. "I don't remember the last time I was that happy. So, thank you. Really."

"I'm glad. That it was as good for you as it was for me." She rubbed his arm with her other hand. "You made me forget what it's like to be alone. At least for a while."

He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "Yeah. That's it exactly."

Sharon went up on her toes and he leaned in and then he was kissing her. He didn't give a shit about the crowd or who was looking. This was almost certainly the last time he'd ever hold her like this and he was going to remember every damn instant of it.

They held onto each other for a while, not long enough. Eventually they called for boarding of her train. He couldn't manifest a single thing to say, since all the words crowded in his head were variants of 'please don't go' or 'I love you'. Things he couldn't ever say.

She stepped back slowly, studying his face as if she were memorizing it. "Be safe," she whispered.

"You, too," he replied. He tipped her face up and kissed her, and then he helped her onto her train. He waited until he saw her appear at a window and she waved. He waved back as the train lurched forward. After that, he couldn't stand it anymore and turned away, walking slowly back to the Pullman.

They were getting back onto the train, and he made a valiant effort not to make eye contact with any of them. He wasn't in the mood for conversation or sympathy. Pietro made one small attempt at it, offering him a shot from a silver flask he had hidden somewhere. He took a swig and handed it back. He probably should fork over the master bedroom, but it was the only privacy he could find, so he didn't.

When he got to Triskelion, there was going to be a lot to do. Getting everyone situated and getting reestablished. Reporting to the Marshal's office and resigning. Being a Sheriff. But the day it would take them to get there, he was going to hid in the room that still smelled like her, and wallow in his misery.

*

New York had never been so miserable. Sharon had no idea what the actual weather was like for the rest of the city's residents, to her it was grey and ugly.

After getting into town she'd gone first to the Pinkerton office to hand in the necklace and give her brusque report. Everyone seemed quite happy with her work and she accepted her accolades and pay check with a thin smile. Coulson wasn't there, still on mission, and so she went home to their cold, empty, dusty house.

Usually after a successful job she spent a few days pampering herself. Shopping, long baths, reading by the fire. But boredom was a constant companion, especially in an empty house, so she was usually right back out looking for her next mission. This time she didn't want to see or speak to anyone else. She enjoyed her solitude, wrapped in house dresses and dressing gowns, unable to focus on any activity for very long.

Days ticked by. She didn't really know how many. She had the vague sense she needed to get on with her life, but a remarkable lack of motivation to do so.

It was the loneliest she'd ever felt in her entire life.

One day, while she was eating toast and jam for breakfast and contemplating a trip to the market for actual food, the front door opened. She stiffened, realizing she didn't have anything resembling a weapon, save for a literal butter knife. Then Uncle Coulson called out her name and she burst off of her chair, sprinting out to the foyer to throw herself at him in a hug.

They were not, as a general rule, demonstrative people. He'd held her when she cried after her parents died and she'd hugged him a few times when one or the other had been hurt or thought dead. But this sort of greeting was not how things were done. Fortunately, he seemed to realize that meant something was wrong, because his arms wrapped around her and he rocked her gently. "Sharon?"

"I'm really glad to see you," she said softly.

"Did it go that badly?" he asked finally.

She sniffed in an extremely undignified manner and let him go, stepping back. "No. It was fine. I got the necklace back and no one got shot."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Clearly _something_ happened."

"I just. . ." She rubbed the back of her neck. "I've been here alone a while. I missed you."

He looked around, taking in the disarray. "Have you. . .been out much?"

This is what came from trying to lie to the person who taught you how. "No. I didn't much feel like it."

He scrutinized her face. "All right. Go put some actual decent clothes on, and we will go out and get some food. And then you will explain in better detail why you've become a hermit."

Shoulders slumped, she mumbled, “Yes, sir," before trudging upstairs to her room. She threw on a dress appropriate for New York, careful not to snag her locket. Despite having vowed to do this only once per day, she opened it again to look at her little portrait.

If she closed her eyes she could conjure up the feel of his hands and the scent of his skin. But it was fading and she dreaded the day that this little sketch was the only way she had to remember Steve.

Uncle Coulson took her to a little cafe they frequented. He waited until they'd ordered and had coffee sitting in front of them before raising a pointed eyebrow and gesturing as if she should continue speaking, despite the fact she had been silent since they'd left the house.

"While I was on the trail of the jewel thief I ran into Marshal Rogers. From the Wells Fargo job in Kansas."

"I remember him," he said. "He was rather distinct."

She smiled a little. "Yes. He was on the same job and we. . . decided working together would be more efficient."

His eyes narrowed. "And you became personally involved?"

With a soft sigh she nodded. "Rather intensely."

He drank his coffee, the silence stretching so long it made her nervous. "So this is grief, then?" he asked quietly. "Nursing a broken heart?"

She would not cry in the middle of a crowded restaurant. In an effort to prevent that, she just nodded again. He reached out, and closed his hand over hers. "Do you want me to shoot him?" It was a sincere offer.

She laughed and shook her head. "No, no. He didn't do anything. He's as upset as I am. Maybe more. We just. . . His life is there and mine is here."

"You're not exactly living much of a life here."

"I suppose not." She shrugged. "Grief ends eventually, right?"

"It does." He paused while their meals were delivered. "This is my fault."

Startled, she shook her head. "No, it's not. You told me to leave him alone when we were in Triskelion. You've always taught me not to get involved with people on the job."

"I turned you into someone who puts her job before her own happiness. And what's worse, I did it when you were too young to understand what you were giving up."

Sharon stared at him. It hadn't occurred to her that's what she was doing until he said it like that. It made everything hurt worse, somehow. Still, she didn't want him to blame himself. "You took care of me the best way you knew how."

"I'm not so sure of that. We had a war that had to be won. They were desperate times. I did what was necessary. But it's long over now and I. . ." he shook his head. "Do you love him?"

She swallowed hard and nodded. "I didn't tell him. I thought it would make it worse."

"Does he love you back?"

Steve had never said it either, but she just couldn't believe he didn't feel the same way. "Yes."

He squeezed her hand again. "I think you deserve to love and be loved. Make a life. Have a family."

For a moment she pictured Steve holding a toddler up on his shoulder. Not dark haired and eyed like Alexi, but a little blond scamp with his Daddy's grin. Her heart ached. "But what about you? And the agency?"

"I'll come visit. Maybe I'll retire. I'm an ordained minister, you know. And the agency can hang." 

She smiled, then had to laugh at the idea of him retiring as a minister in that crazy ass town. Tears welled up again, happy this time. "Maybe he'll let me be a deputy."


	11. Go West Young Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a birth scene. Not graphic considering the reality, but it's written by two moms and we pull no punches.

Triskelion was as it ever was, and yet completely different. The railroad line had brought new people and new construction, but had not turned the town intro Dodge City. The specter of cattle drive season approaching—their first as the southward railhead—was looming, and everyone seemed very happy he was back. A group of town men, mostly Bucky, Wilson, and Barton, had been covering Sheriff duties in his absence, but they all had day jobs. When asked why they never filled it permanently, Bucky insisted he knew Steve would be back.

Wanda and her husband opened a dress shop where they sold a little jewelry. Within a few weeks, most of the town had learned some of the hand sign language the family spoke. Steve had been surprised by how quickly it had spread. He did love this town.

Maximoff went to work for Stark, who had taken over many of Pierce's enterprises. "I'll find him something to do," he'd told Steve. He'd assumed there would be something involving cows, but that manual labor would do the kid good.

A week later, Stark announced a new initiative, that would bring impoverished immigrant families from the eastern cities—on special free rail tickets—out to Kansas and help them claim and set up a homestead. 

"This America?" Maximoff said to Steve as they waited for the train that carried the first families. "Not so bad."

He smiled, something that had been much harder to do since he'd gotten back. He knew the others had noticed, but nobody said anything, not even Bucky. He wondered if what happened had made its way around town through the gossip circles, and that was why people gave him his space.

Stark let Maximoff organize the program how he saw fit, and he'd set up a bit of a welcoming committee to greet their new arrivals. He was there, of course, and Steve, and Mrs. Hill, who'd run unopposed a year ago and been elected Mayor. (The state governor had written to Stark and complained they couldn't have a woman mayor. Legend had it Stark replied with crude sketch of his own ass, but Steve thought that was just a myth.)

The brand-new Mrs. Maximoff spoke more than a dozen languages and came to smooth any communications issues. Food and drink was provided by the saloon or one of the new restaurants, and someone was on hand for medical treatment for anyone who needed it. Mrs. Banner or Mrs Odinsson—who split teaching duties now because the town decided it didn't want to rehire new teachers over and over because they got married—would come to meet the parents and count the new children. Wilson offered free shaves and haircuts, Thor and Bucky set out plans for simple houses that could be knocked together quickly, and Loki had all the complicated land paperwork ready to be filed.

Very quickly, the whole thing turned into kind of a street festival.

"I think we're going to scare them," Steve muttered.

"That's because you grew up in an indifferent and crowded American city," Maximoff told him. "My village in the Old Country—before the war—had about 400 people in it. They'd throw a party for visitors. This'll feel like home."

Steve didn't want to live in New York. But he thought about just packing up and going there, every single day.

They could hear the train whistle before they could see it. Then the plume of steam showed at the horizon and the big black beast started crawling towards them. People gathered around, lining up in the order they'd found worked best. Steve plastered on his "welcoming sheriff" smile and greeted the horde as they climbed down.

He lost exact count, but he thought it was about eight families that got off, with far more children than he could track. He was beginning to think they might need to get another teacher after all, just to handle the load, when he saw a woman in a fussy yellow and blue dress step off the train and wondered if someone had already thought of it. She had on an enormous bonnet that covered her face and carried a worn leather bag that was completely incongruous.

"Oh, look, Sheriff, it's a new cupcake," Mrs. Hill said from behind him. When to turned to glare at her whatever was on his face made her take an actual step back.

"I don't remember any single women on the list," Mrs. Maximoff said and Pietro shook his head.

Steve turned back in time to see the porter drop a vaguely familiar looking trunk down next to the woman. She reached down to grab the handle, then turned towards them so he could see her face and he swore his heart stopped.

 _Sharon._

It took him a moment to actually get his limbs working. There were people he was supposed to be greeting, but he stepped out of his place and started towards her through the crowd. He could see on her face the moment she noticed him. She dropped the handle of her trunk and her bag and ran the last few feet to meet him. He caught her, lifting her clear off her feet with the force of the hug. She knocked his hat off and he felt tears sting his eyes.

For a moment they just held onto each other, as tight as they could. Then she turned her head and whispered, "There was something I forgot to tell you."

"You came all this way to tell me something?"

She nodded, then leaned back so he could see her face. "I love you. And I don't want to be without you."

He had to blink a few times because it was blurry—but she was crying a little, too. "I love you, too. Did you come to stay?" He sounded embarrassingly hopeful.

With a brilliant smile, she said, in an almost casual tone, "Well, I heard about this crazy town in Kansas that's about to start growing like a weed. And I thought to myself, that's a town that's going to need an experienced deputy."

"We do have a lady major. Lady deputy fits right in." He didn't think he'd ever felt this happy in his entire life. "And we make a great team."

"That we do." He set her on her feet, though he kept hold of her. "Uncle Coulson is coming, too. In case you all are in the market for a minister. He's a couple days behind me, had to tie up some loose ends, sell the house, ship our things."

"They ran out the last minister because he wouldn't let the saloon girls come to church."

"Well, you won't have that problem with Coulson." She ran her hands along his arms. "He said to tell you hello, you have his blessing, and he's glad he doesn't have to shoot you."

Steve laughed. "And here I was going to wait for him to formally ask for your hand."

"Well, I suppose you still can since I imagine we have to wait for him for any actual ceremonies. But in the meantime. . ." She grinned and pressed closer to him. "We can sin a little more."

He kissed her, and they let it go on for a while, until he realized how quiet the train platform had become. He lifted his head and looked around to find what felt like the entire town staring at them with varying degrees of surprise and confusion on their faces. Except the Maximoffs, they were both standing there grinning.

Sharon tucked into his side and waved. "Hi all."

"I feel like we might have missed the middle of the story," Mrs. Hill said conversationally.

There was a delighted shriek of, "Cupcake!" from off to the right and a very pregnant Darcy Bennet plowed through the crowd. 

Sharon grinned and broke away from him to hug the other woman and then the two of them were talking excitedly over each other too fast for him to follow. He recalled they had fought side-by-side in the battle for the town. Clearly it had left a mark.

Word must have traveled, as other women began working their way through the crowd to join the hug—Natasha and Syn and Mrs. Odinsson and other girls from the saloon. Steve stepped back, letting her enjoy her welcome.

Bucky appeared at his side. "Is that why you've been in a foul mood since you came back?"

He sighed, happily this time. "Yeah. She was chasing the same quarry. We teamed up, and then we. . .fell in love."

"And she went away," Bucky finished. "And now she's back."

"Yes," he said, and it was as simple as that. "She came to be with me. She chose me."

"She has good taste." He clapped Steve on the back. "Congratulations."

He was grinning so wide his face hurt. "Thank you."

"Think this means Edie will be getting a little cousin to play with?"

He met Sharon's eyes over the crowd. "God, I hope so."

Bucky was quiet a moment. "Would you care to look at our selection of affordable homes?"

"I helped you build yours," Steve said. "You'll help me build mine." Sharon was walking towards him now, and the _rightness_ of it all settled over him. This is exactly everything he wanted. Even a few things he hadn't dared hope for. He held out a hand to her and tucked her to his side. "Hello, darlin'."

"Hello, Sheriff." She leaned on him, playing with the star pinned to his chest. "You know anywhere a lady could rest her weary bones?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. I probably have some sheriff duties to attend before we, er, retire. Are you hungry? We have Chinese food."

She laughed. "Seriously?"

"One of Ora's girls that came from San Francisco is Chinese. I asked her if she'd teach me how to make dumplings. Word got around, requests piled up, and she set up an official restaurant. These days I think Daisy does as much business as the saloon."

"Well, now I'm really glad I came."

He leaned down to kiss her temple. "I love you."

She tipped her head back to catch his mouth in a proper kiss. "I love you back."

*

_Fourteen months later_

To Sharon's relief, pregnancy wasn't as bad as she'd been lead to believe. Oh, she was tired a lot and her feet swelled. She couldn't wear her pants after the third or fourth month and was stuck in dresses. She ate her body weight in dumplings during month six. And next time she was going to do everything in her power to make sure she wasn't due anywhere near the cattle run. But all in all, it wasn't so bad.

Summer nine months pregnant was no fun at all, though. Last year at this time she and Steve had been running around keeping all the strangers and new comers the cattle drive brought through in line. This year, all she could do was sit with her feet up and a cold cloth on her neck and wish for it all to be over.

Wanda had made her a dress that was as cool as feasible and still be decent. At home, she could sit around in her chemise, but they'd rebuilt the jail with stone walls, and on a hot day it was the coolest spot in town, so she tended to loiter in the Sheriff's Office. Which put her in earshot of what sounded like shenanigans going down in front of the saloon. 

Steve had gone down there almost an hour ago to roust some drunks. Loud drunks were as common as midges in May during the drive, so she hadn't thought much of it. But this sounded like more of a fuss than normal, so she hauled her uncomfortable, achy self off her chair and waddled out onto the boardwalk to see what the fuss was about.

There was a man out in the street, waving a gun around. He was drunk and staggering. Steve was a dozen yards away, also pointing is gun, and trying to convince the man to put his gun down.

Cursing, she took a step down the walk to get a better look at the situation. Then she stopped. She should probably just go back inside. Having his pregnant wife out on the street wasn't going to help Steve's concentration at all.

Before she could turn back, a strong cramp gripped her stomach and she had to grab the hitching post, gritting her teeth. There had been a lot of little cramps the last couple days, on and off. The other ladies had told her they were normal and nothing to worry about. This was harder than the others had been, but it was probably still fine. Labor didn't start till your water broke.

As if the thought had jinxed her, the cramp passed and she felt a rush of hot liquid pour down her leg.

"I'll shoot someone!" yelled the man in the street. "I will!"

"Calm down," Steve said, like he'd said it a hundred times, in his irritatingly patient voice.

Sharon stared at the wet spot on her dress, then the puddle on the boardwalk. Another cramp tightened her belly and she hunched up. When it passed, she pulled her gun out of her hip holster, sighted and shot the idiot waving his gun around.

He dropped, and Steve whirled around. "What—?"

"I am in labor," she informed him, shoving the gun back into its holster. "We did not have time for his shit."

He fumbled his gun, and almost dropped it. She was lucky he didn't shoot himself. He managed to get it holstered, and began to jog towards her. She hung onto the post again, growling at another wave of pain. "Doctor. Now."

"Let me take you home, and then I'll go get them. Shit." He turned and shouted in the direction of the saloon. "Syn!"

Clearly, she'd been watching or had heard the gun shot because she came running immediately. "What do you need?"

"Amanda. And Doc. And a. . ." He looked at Sharon. "Do we need a cart or something?"

Syn studied him as if trying to figure out where he was hurt. Then she noticed the water underneath Sharon and sighed. "Oh. No. She should walk. Can you walk?" she asked Sharon.

"When it's not cramping." When the pains weren't active she felt more or less normal, if still pregnant.

"Good." She looked at Steve. "Walk her home, let her take breaks when it hurts. I'll get let Doc know what's going on, then be over."

"Okay. Okay." He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, and she could see the calm soldier take over. He put his arm around her. "Here we go."

Syn gave Sharon's arm a little pat before running off. She leaned into Steve as they headed slowly towards their house. Every twenty or so steps she had to stop and breathe through the pains. He rubbed her back and whispered. "I got you."

"That's great," she muttered. "Next baby you can squeeze out."

"Would that I could," he replied, in the middle of a cramp, and she gave real consideration to punching him in the face.

When they got to the house he helped her upstairs and tried to coax her to lay down and relax. Sharon knew just enough about getting babies out to know gravity was her friend. So she ignored him and leaned on the foot board of the bed, panting and cursing him with every contraction. 

Steve hovered about, and she was dimly aware of other people entering the room. From her position she could see skirts sweeping the floor, and then one additional pair of mens boots. Amanda didn't usually bring Dr. Banner in on births unless there was a problem, so Sharon looked up to see they belonged to Bucky, and glared at him. 

He held up his hands. "I just came up to collect Steve."

"I should stay," Steve said immediately, even as Nat and Syn began pushing him towards the door. 

Wanda reached to squeeze his arm. "This is women's work," she said gently, but with the authority of a woman who'd had five babies in four years.

"But -"

"Steve," Sharon ground out. "Go or I will end up punching you before this is over."

"All right." He leaned to kiss her forehead. "I'll be downstairs." Bucky got ahold of his arm and mercifully pulled him out the door.

Amanda patted her back and crouched to get her hands under her skirts to check on her progress. "Most men want nothing to do with birthing rooms. Did he think he was going to run it like a regiment?"

"I'm sure if Loki could have willed me to have the baby quicker he would have," Syn said, stacking towels and clothes next to the bed. "If he could only complain loud enough she would simply present herself with no more fuss."

"In Rogers's defense, Clint stays with me. If he heard about that, he may have though there were expectations."

"There's an exception to every rule," Amanda said. "That sniper breathing of his is miraculous, I'd take him to all my births." She gave Sharon another pat and stood. "Everything's progressing nicely but you've got a few hours left."

She groaned at breathed through the next round of pain. "How do you do this multiple times?"

Wanda put a cool, wet rag on the back of her neck, and said, "Somehow it doesn't seem so bad from the other side."

"Speak for yourself," Darcy said.

"Holding the baby helps," Nat offered. "Though you'll probably still hate Steve for a while."

"That's part of why it's good to have them not nearby," Darcy said. "I'd have seriously considered castrating Cal with a knitting needle in the middle of labor." Sharon remembered. She was there.

Their conversation moved to other topics, which helped Sharon take her mind off of her current predicament. She paced the floor, leaning on Syn or Amanda for support. She laid down a few times, mostly on her side. She thought she might have dozed for a bit, while the other women moved around her, talking quietly.

She woke suddenly in very urgent, intense pain. She must have made a noise, because Amanda rushed over to check her. "Somebody have boiling water on?" Amanda asked the other women.

"We put Steve on it," Nat said. "And he. . . roped in half the men like they were his regiment and they hauled out the wash cauldrons and now there's a bonfire and what's got to be a hundred gallons of hot water in your yard."

"Of course there is," Amanda muttered. Sharon had gotten to know the nurse rather well - being married to best friends would do that - and liked her calm practicality. And having someone to roll her eyes with when the boys were being silly.

"I would really like to push," she said as calmly as she could when the pain eased.

Amanda had her rolled over onto her back to check her. "Well, yes, I imagine so. So you want to get up or stay on the bed?"

"I don't think I can stand."

"Bed it is. Next time you feel that big pain coming bear down."

She pushed hard, instinct telling her it would make the pain better. It actually made it worse, and Amanda said, "Baby may be sitting a little funny. Help me get her turned over," she said to the other women, and they got her around on all fours without a lot of effort on her part. Pushing felt much better that way, even if she needed help steadying.

"This is a little weird," she gasped between pushes.

"They do get in there in all sorts of wacky positions," Darcy said. "Makes sense they come out that way."

"Darcy," Wanda scolded.

"What? I was a prostitute for long enough that I can size up a man's kink level in under a minute. There is nothing about the Sheriff that says lights-out-missionary."

Actually, there _was_ better than good odds she was in a position similar to this when the baby was conceived. However, she kind of wanted to enjoy said position again int he future, and so started to scold Darcy herself. Another contraction pain came before she could, so she put her annoyance into that push.

"See? There's the head," Darcy said. "I'm useful."

Sharon gasped for another breath. "Really?"

"Really," Amanda said, sounding surprised. "I can't believe how quiet you are."

Syn crouched down next to her, and with her usual bluntness, said, "Here comes the worst. And then the best."

She lost them after that, lost track of whatever they were talking about as she focused inward on an amount of agony that was making a gunshot look like a cakewalk. But she was glad they were there, putting cold cloths on her neck and warm one on her back. Unlike other times she'd been in serious pain, she was not in any way alone.

Syn crouched down again ad waited for Sharon to look at her. "These next ones have to really strong and really long. So take a deep breath and push as long as you can. And then push a little more."

Sharon nodded and when the felt the pain gathering she took a deep breath and pushed, giving her everything. Dimly she heard Syn counting down from ten and focused on making it till one. When she was done, she gasped and Syn said, "Good job. Again."

Again, again. She may have cursed. She probably did. Childbirth seemed an appropriate time. Syn counted, she pushed. On the next one, somewhere around five she felt an enormous pressure. She screamed, for the first time during this whole process, then there was a release and she slumped forward on the bed, panting.

Somewhere behind her a baby's cry split the air. 

Somehow she got mostly on her back, and someone shoved a pillow behind her. Amanda handed her a bloody, squalling infant. "It's a boy."

At least part of it was probably the sudden lack of pain after many hours of it, but Sharon looked down at her son and couldn't remember ever being so happy. "Hi," she whispered, voice choked. "I'm Mama."

Syn and Darcy rolled him away long enough to wipe off the worst of the blood while Amanda dealt with the cord. Then he was cuddled up against her again. Syn covered him with a warm dry cloth and Sharon hugged him to her breast, pointedly ignoring whatever was happening between her legs. 

"You were a lot of trouble," she informed her son. "But you're pretty cute."

She heard pounding feet on the stairs, and called, "Get away from the door." Wanda stepped aside just in time for Steve to come crashing through with enough force to dent the plaster.

"That's Papa," she informed the baby. "He's loud and doesn't know his own strength."

He came over to the side of the bed, looking utterly dumbstruck. "They told me there would be screaming, so I'd know when to get ready." He slid onto his knees beside the bed. "He? She?"

"He." She shifted a little so he could see more of the baby's face. "Meet your son."

Steve reached to touch his face with one hand. "He's beautiful," he whispered.

"Yes, he is. Which is good, because I'm pretty sure that was the worst thing I've ever felt."

"Couldn't tell by us," Amanda commented. The girls lifted her legs so they could pull out the messy sheets and oilcloth to reveal clean ones below. Amanda had this midwifery thing down to an art.

Steve was looking at the baby, and she could see tears sliding down his cheeks. She wiggled an arm free and touched his face, wiping the moisture away. "You wanna hold him?" He nodded fiercely, and she passed him the tiny bundle. 

The other women took the opportunity to help her get out of what was left of her soiled clothes and line the bed with a stack of fresh cloths to soak up the post-partum blood. Then she was settled in a fresh nightgown and propped up on pillows. Steve sat on the edge of the bed, still cradling the baby as the ladies cleaned up.

"We need to name him," Sharon said.

He grinned. "Is there a name that would do him justice?"

"Sharon Junior," she suggested.

Steve chuckled. "I feel like that might get him picked on."

"He's our kid. He can handle it."

"We do have until the christening to figure it out," he replied. He leaned to kiss her forehead. "You want a bath? There's, uh, lots of hot water."

She laughed. "Yes, I heard. A bath sounds lovely."

"I will carry it all upstairs for you, one bucket at a time."

"I love you. While you do that I should probably see if Junior here wants breakfast."

"I will leave you to your nursing." He looked at her very seriously for a moment. "Thank you."

Pausing in unbuttoning her nightgown, she looked up at him. "Whatever for?"

She could see him take a moment to articulate it, and found herself thinking about the first time he hauled water for a bath for her. If anyone had told her how it would go, she'd have laughed in their face. "Giving me a family."

The baby nuzzled at the breast she'd revealed and she looked down so she could help him line up and latch. Watching her son nurse she felt a swell of love so strong it took away her breath. She looked back at Steve. "Thank you."

He was watching the both of them. "For the same?"

"Exactly."

He rested his hand on the baby's head and smiled. "Be good to your Mama, little one. Papa will be back soon."

Sharon leaned in and kissed him. "We'll be right here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first female mayor was a woman named Susanna Salter. She was elected in 1887 in Argonia, Kansas, served one year and was paid $1 for her work.
> 
> There is probably a third story in the series coming soon, telling Bruce and Violet's story.


End file.
